


Eagles of One Nest

by KoshiSekisen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Chapter, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, Flashbacks, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel, Hunting Network, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men of Letters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Supportive Sam Winchester, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-07-14 07:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoshiSekisen/pseuds/KoshiSekisen
Summary: “Jesus, Cas…” Sam breathed, a hot flash blinding him as he leaned forward on his knees, suddenly unable to face him. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, hot tears streaming down his fingers. “You’re back…”“I never… intended to leave.” And there was so much regret in those words, a hitch at the end, that Sam chuckled.“I know.”“Sam, you’re...” He gathered the courage to look up and chuckled at Cas’s wide eyes. He coughed again before croaking his next words. “How long was I gone?”Sam gave a mirthless laugh. “Ten years, Cas.”ORThe one where The Empty brings Castiel back and everything is different.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has got to be my most ambitious SPN fanfic to date! Usually, I write the entire fic before posting, but I was anxious to share this before S14 aired. I will try to update at least twice a month. Please comment to feed my muse (she’s always hungry)!   
> Please follow at koshisekisen (Tumblr) for updates and sneak peeks!

The highway stretched onward, endless, a lonely patch of grey and faded white paint on dirt. Right and left, now human Castiel was greeted by sharp rocks, tall cacti, and electricity posts framing the road. The atmosphere burned dry, hot, interrupted by icy blasts of frozen wind. At first, there had been cars roaring in either direction at random intervals, but by the time he considered asking for help the road was abandoned and he, stranded.

Since The Empty hadn’t given him a phone or a watch, Castiel was unsure how long he’d walked. As his energetic footsteps became the dragging of his feet, and the glaring bright daylight softened, the ex-angel pressed on forward. Pinpricks on his heels stabbed his calves, his back curved with the slump of his shoulders, the dryness reached the back of his throat and settled heavily on his tongue.

Still, he walked, the silence of the road a perfect companion to reminiscing.

He grunted, he panted but walked on. He needed to get somewhere — anywhere. Find Sam. Dean. At first, memories teased at the back of his mind, just out of reach, just a glimpse here and there, but as he gained distance they returned, raw, painful, but real.

He remembered Kelly, the Apocalypse world, Lucifer.

Dying. The Empty.

His body gave a lonely shudder.

The teasing words, jabs,  _ truths _ . How he’d had the gall to stand up to It and demand to be brought back… He only had the Winchesters to thank. God knew how often they’d stared at doom in the face and laughed. He couldn’t have asked for better teachers during the end of the world.

The Empty hadn’t let him go unpunished, though, if his humanity was anything to go by.

Not a speck of grace remained in him.

The hours dragged on along with his footsteps, taking with it the warmth and light and spreading darkness and cold. He rubbed his hands together as he’d seen Dean do in winter, but his fingers grew numb and he stopped, instead wrapping his arms around his middle as Sam did.

The passing of time drew forth the night, a vast array of darkened colors in the sky, flickering stars and a shy waxing moon. When they’d last fought Lucifer, the moon had been waning, which meant he’d been dead  _ at least  _ two weeks. A lot could’ve happened to the world in a fortnight, but the planet was intact and Sam and Dean had to be alive. They  _ had  _ to.

At least they’d been back in this world and not back mid-Apocalypse.

Was Kelly all right? Was Jack born?

 

* * *

 

_ “I know you’re there,” Castiel muttered, looking around the nothingness that surrounded him in search of that disturbance. “I can feel you.” _

_ “ _ **_Hello_ ** _.” The voice was high-pitched, cheerful, but contained no warmth. _

_ Castiel turned, keeping his face inexpressive as he curled his hands into fists, without a blade slipping from his sleeve. So he didn’t have weapons. Only decades of facing the impossible, hallucinations, and mind-control, grounded him as he regarded—himself, except that wasn’t him. The content smile, the relaxed set of his shoulders proved it was a different Creature altogether that borrowed his face. Jimmy’s face. Castiel squared his shoulders, ready to fight with hands and teeth. _

_ “What are you?” _

_ “ _ **_Oh, I’m just your friendly neighborhood cosmic entity._ ** _ ” Its voice vibrated with giddiness, and yet those eyes regarded him with the same curiosity of a child about to murder its first pet. _

_ “Why do you look like me?” _

_ “ _ **_Oh, yes. Yes, yes_ ** _ ,” the Thing breathed, patting its torso, cackling. “ _ **_Well, I show up in my real form, and you freak out, rip out your own eyes, etcetera. That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? For both of us._ ** _ ” _

Real form? _ Castiel studied the Entity, looking into Its depths—but It wasn’t an angel and It wasn’t a demon, he could still see through their vessels powered-down as he was. He glanced around them, finding nothing but darkness. _

_ “What is this place?” _

_ “ _ **_Oh, yes. Excellent question._ ** _ ” It paused. “ _ **_You see, before God and Amara, Creation, Destruction, Heaven, Hell…_ ** _ ” Its eyebrows raised with intention, before furrowing in contempt. “ _ **_Your precious little Earth… What was there?_ ** _ ” _

_ Castiel frowned, squinting his eyes in thought. Before  _ Creation _? “Nothing.” _

_ It nodded. “ _ **_Yes._ ** _ ” The face split into a grin. “ _ **_That’s right. Nothing. Nothing but Empty._ ** _ ” It looked around. Castiel followed Its eyes to no avail. There was nothing to be found. It spun to face him. “ _ **_And you are soaking in it. Angels and demons, you all come here when you die._ ** _ ” _

_ “Every angel who has ever died is here?” Castiel turned away, seeking proof—did it mean his brothers and sisters were there? The ones he’d failed to protect… the one he’d killed?  _ No…

_ “ _ **_Yes. Sleeping in endless, peaceful sleep._ ** _ ” It slithered behind him, footsteps soundless. “ _ **_You know, I? I was sleeping too._ ** _ ” It bore an almost understanding smile. “ _ **_Hey, uh, since we’re pals… There’s something I’ve gotta know, I ’ve just gotta ask. Hmm. Why are you awake?”_ ** _ Each syllable was sharply emphasized. _

_ Castiel waited, the question circling in his head in an endless loop—he was dead. But if this Entity was angered at his wakefulness, then... his awakening couldn’t be the norm. Did Jack’s birth disturb something even beyond Creation, as well? _

_ “ _ **_...‘Cause, fun fact. In all of forever, nothing ever wakes up here, I mean, ever. And second fun fact, when you woke up, I woke up, and I don’t like being awake, so..._ ** _ ” It spoke with intent, each word grating his nerves. Castiel found himself unable to face It. As though reading his mind, It turned. “ _ **_What’s up, smart guy?_ ** _ ” _

_ Fighting back the urge to step back, Castiel found his voice. “I don’t know.” _

_ “ _ **_Well, think!_ ** _ ” It spat. _

_ The words spilled before he could even attempt to stop them; the theories whirling in his brain as he mulled over them out loud. “The Winchesters. Sam and Dean. They must’ve made a deal.” _

_ Had they? After  _ everything _? Surely they wouldn’t risk bringing him back again, not when he’d just pulled them out of that world, not when dealing with Reapers and Divine entities had only brought them pain and regret. What had Sam and Dean sacrificed?  _ Jack _? Surely not, not when the Nephilim was the key to Salvation. _

_ “ _ **_Nugh, no, no. No. Not with me and I’m… I’m the only one who has any pull here. Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not G-O-D Himself so… Think. Harder. Rack that perky, little—_ ** _ ” Before Castiel could move back, two fingers poked him in the forehead. The touch was as cold and hard as cement, the maliciousness behind it reverberating in his brain like a gong. “ _ **_—brain of yours._ ** _ ” _

_ “Get away from me,” he growled. _

_ It grinned, head turning to a side in contempt. “ _ **_Okay, fine. I’ll rack it for you._ ** _ ” _

_ A hand shot up, the earlier touch now all-encompassing as— _

_ A scream broke the nothingness as every cell in his body combusted spontaneously in a fiery pit of agony, a whoosh washing over every corner of every single molecule and dissolving in a silent explosion. He’d been tortured before, by angels, by demons, cursed and broken—but this… _

_ As quickly as it started, the pain vanished. On his arms and knees, panting in exertion, Cas bit out. “What did... What did you do to me?” _

“ **_I’ve read your mind, such as it is._ ** ”

_ He refused to lie while It stood, so he forced himself to sit up but lacked the strength to pull himself to his feet. Begrudgingly, he looked up. “What do you want?” _

_ “ _ **_What do I want? I want you to shut up._ ** _ ” Its gestures were erratic, almost childishly so. Castiel grit his teeth, his head still throbbing with the echoes of the past, pounding against his skull. “ _ **_I want… Hmm... Having you awake, it’s like a gnat flew right up here and it’s trapped and it’s buzzing._ ** _ ” _

_ “Having me awake…” Cas grunted. “Causes you pain.” _

_ “ _ **_If you can’t sleep, I can’t sleep, yeah?_ ** _ ” It stared at him as though he wasn’t an angel, but an idiotic animal. Irritation rolled off him in waves. “ _ **_And I like sleep, I need sleep_ ** _.” _

_ “Then get rid of me,” he dared. _

_ “ _ **_Oh, I should, should I?_ ** _ ” It nodded, voice high and playful, but Its eyes hardened. _

_ “Send me back to Earth.” _

_ “ _ **_Or,_ ** _ ” It paused, his arms shooting in front wildly. “ _ **_I throw you so deep into The Empty that you can’t bother me anymore, hmm?_ ** _ ” _

_ Castiel glowered, irritation clawing inside him. What did It want? This was his chance to go back to Sam and Dean, to Jack, where he belonged. He had to _ ‘play his cards right.’ _ “Except you know that won’t work or you would’ve done it already.” _

_ It looked away, fingers twitching in front of Its face. “ _ **_Pretty smart. Pretty smart, dummy._ ** _ ” There was no heat in the insult, so Castiel pushed one more time. _

_ He had to try again. “Send me back.” _

_ “ _ **_That’s not part of the deal. Hmm-mm. No. No._ ** _ ” It shook Its head. “ _ **_Besides, you don’t want to go back._ ** _ ” _

_ “Yes, I do.” He growled. “Sam and Dean need me.” Or so he hoped. _

_ “ _ **_Oh, save it._ ** _ ” It walked toward him, crouching, face crumpled in fake pity despite the unwavering cheery tone. Castiel clenched his fists. “ _ **_I have tiptoed through all your little tulips._ ** _ ” It tapped his head, this time soft, yet still cold. “ _ **_Your memories, your little feelings, yes. I know what you hate._ ** _ ” _

_ Castiel froze, unable to look at the Creature as it whispered. “ _ **_I know who you_ ** **love…** **_what you fear. There is nothing for you back there._ ** _ ” _

_ He glanced up, a tight vice gripping his chest, and this time it had nothing to do with that Monster or the dire situation he was in. The words reverberated with the same intensity as when It read his mind—dark, cold, viciously bringing forth all the insecurities he kept pushing back. All the thoughts and uncertainties bloomed. _ It said Sam and Dean didn’t bring me back.  _ He had no reason to believe It, but It had no reason to lie to him either. He’d hoped the brothers hadn’t done something stupid to bring him back… and now he considered it, it shattered him when he realized that was exactly what they had done—nothing. _

_ “ _ **_No. Here. Let me show you._ ** _ ” Two hands cupped his cheeks, the sound resembling a pat, the sting as sharp as a slap. _

_ Foreseeing what was about to happen, Castiel braced himself but still couldn’t stop a scream as pain exploded in front of his eyes and enveloped him, drowning him in a sea of agony. He expected the assault this time, but the entrapment of the seat and the brightness of the white room gripped him, and he gasped as a blade pierced his throat.  _ It’s not real.  _ Grace bled from a wound that sang in the throes of pain, taking with it his essence, his core, his last connection to divinity. He stumbled with the momentum of the last steps he’d taken, Sam and Dean’s expression twisting in horror as he staggered forward. Pressure punctured his chest, burning his insides, obliterating his entirety in a ball of light and fire and nothingness. _

_ It had lasted too little to hurt. _

_ And then he walked again, dragging heavy legs into the cold water, the lake barely cleansing the sins he’d bathed himself in. Black goo streamed down his face, staining his hands, his small part in the history of the world. The Leviathan had corrupted every single particle of divinity he’d been granted, and he closed his eyes with the most bitter regret of them all: he’d betrayed Dean and he would never know how sorry he was. And then he stood back in the laboratory, those souls broke out of his chest, drawing out the source of power and draining him dry, sucking out all and everything he’d sacrificed for a year. He’d done everything for them, to save Earth from Raphael, and he’d been alone all along... the memory crushed him more than his ribs splintering under the pressure. _

_ And then he was back, flat against the — floor? — and he gathered all his strength to push himself to his elbows. He exhaled once, pushing against the trauma of the flashbacks in that one breath. He shook his head, not daring to breathe, squishing down the thread of panic that threatened to strangle him. _

_ “ _ **_Come on, Castiel! Wouldn’t you rather be a fond memory than a constant, festering disappointment?_ ** _ ” _

_ Before he could respond, a movement fluttered next to him and a heavy boot, hard as a cannonball, robbed him of his breath as it shocked his midriff. _

_ It threw him to his side, his lungs empty, his whole body vibrating in pain. He gasped for air. _

_ It crouched next to him, voice soft despite the beating. “ _ **_Just let’s lay down._ ** _ ” Castiel shuddered as an ice-cold hand caressed his back, stroking him in mock imitation of companionship. “ _ **_Let’s just try and sleep. Hmm?_ ** _ ” Fingers reached his face, making him twitch in anticipation. “ _ **_Think about it. Infinite peace, yes? No regrets. No pain._ ** _ ” _

Infinite piece. No regrets. No pain.  _ He longed to close his eyes to the rhythmic voice, the false promise of nothingness, the lack of pain. But before he could close his eyes, and just in time to snap himself out of that bizarre stupor, It patted him harshly. _

_ “ _ **_Kiddo, save yourself._ ** _ ” It rose to Its feet. _

Salvation _. The words struck a chord, and immediately a thought followed.  _ Dean Winchester is saved.

_ “I’m already saved.” The words brought with them calm, resolution—the genuine acceptance of everything he’d lost and gained. He’d saved the Winchesters, and the Winchesters had saved him. _

_ Before he could bask in the glory of the realization, a force to his stomach drove him to the ground, ripping out a shout. Agony flared from his abdomen to the tips of his fingers.  _ But no…  _ He pushed it down again, eyes widening upon realizing that the agony he felt here resounded on an atomic level, yet vanished just as quickly. Not even pain could last in the presence of the vast nothingness. _

_ Breathing normally, he sat up, facing that Entity with the only weapon he had left—himself. “You can prance, and you can preen, and you can scream, and yell, and remind me of my failings but somehow, I’m awake. And I will stay awake and I will keep you awake until we both go insane.” _

_ Again he crashed to the ground as a fist as hard as a boulder crashed on his cheekbone. He absorbed the impact, didn’t fight it as it crashed inside him with a flare, and then felt it go out like an extinguished flame. _

_ “I will fight you.” He rose, jaw set, fists clenched. He knew what made this Entity tick, and he had forever to get back at It. “Fight you and fight you forever. For eternity.” _

_ It shook Its head, eyes hard, shoulders tense with panic. It breathed hard though Castiel was the one panting from exertion. “ _ **_No. No._ ** _ ” _

_ “Release me.” Castiel took a step closer, straightening his back in order to tower over It. Face to face, he didn’t blink as he kept eye contact. “Release me.” _

 

* * *

 

He walked, walked, and walked until his legs shook with exhaustion and the back of his head pounded with a vengeance. A full throb reverberated in his body as his steps slowed to a painful crawl — he’d ended on his knees.

How long had he been moving? Long enough for shy rays of daylight to bleach the darkness. Had he walked all day and night? Was the human body not equipped with enough stamina to go on even after such a short time? He’d lived for millennia, had watched atoms turn into cells, into fish, into men. Surely his body could withstand—but then again, humans needed to rest. Dean had made it quite clear when they’d first met. Four hours and all.

Almost like rain, memories of his own time as a powered-down angel trickled down his consciousness. He’d slept, back then. Emmanuel, too. As a homeless man, he’d dozed on shelters, alleys and park benches. Steve, even, had crawled in a sleeping bag in the storage of the Sip ‘N Gas.

He started, suddenly aware he’d fallen to the ground, the hard asphalt raw against his cheek.  _ Get up. _ Alas, the moment he raised his head to continue his journey, darkness befell on him and ended his thoughts with a snap.


	2. A Twist of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Suicidal thoughts. Suicide idealization. Heavy angst.

Sam Winchester cracked his knuckles, sore from the hours of uninterrupted typing. He was getting too old for this — hours upon hours hunched over a laptop; the screen glaring into his eyes to the point he wondered if he’d end up wearing glasses after all. Dean would never let him live it down. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was late afternoon, and he’d been working on his research for over ten hours without a break…. His “deadline” wasn’t until the following week, but he wanted to tackle the newest idea Patience had come up with as soon as possible. With a sigh, he shut down the computer and leaned back against the comfortable office chair.

Rubbing his eyes, he headed toward the kitchen where he dug out the last of Dean’s tupperwares — frozen tomato rice soup — and shoved it into their microwave. The door screeched when he reopened it, a reminder that some kitchen appliances needed to be renovated. He dug a spoon from the fresh dishwasher and ate from the plastic container while browsing the news on his phone.

He supposed someone would’ve notified him if there was a case somewhere, but the hunter network was silent and the news focused heavily on politics.

After putting away the clean dishes and loading the washer again, he debated whether to go to town for a beer or stay at home and catch up on his Netflix series. _Seven o’clock. Yeah, not happening._ He’d be alone in the Bunker for another ten days, and he didn’t want to make a precedent to shut himself off like a recluse. He’d been on Dean’s case enough to recognize the pattern.

Coat in hand, Sam swiped the keys off the hook he’d installed years ago and unlocked his car. He bypassed the Impala’s parking spot and, the minute his headlamps hit the road his foot slammed the brake, bringing about a squeaking sound as the tires scraped the asphalt.

His heart pounding heavily on his chest, and suddenly drenched in cold sweat, he stared at the shape a few feet away from his car. He could barely see it — him — over the hood, just inches below the yellow lights. Was he hallucinating…?

Hands fumbling with the door, he almost tripped out of the car as he rushed toward… Well, even if it was a coincidence, even if it was a grand, cruel joke, the man might be hurt and in need of an ambul—

“Cas…”

The name escaped his lips with a sigh, hitching as he took in his… What, friend? No. Brother. _But it can’t be…_ Except when Sam turned the man around, it was—it _was_ Castiel. Not as he’d remembered him, not really, but he still relived his friend’s death in his dreams, sometimes. Photos of him were scattered around the Bunker. The freezing man in his arms... he was gaunt, pale, a breath away from… His pulse spiked in alarm. _No!_ With trembling fingers, he searched for a pulse.

Weak. Thready.

But there.

_But he’s dead._ Was this a trap? Had some Big Bad twisted the universe yet again to taunt them with memories of the one person they hadn’t been able to save? _I don’t have time for this._ He might be a doppelgänger, Jimmy Novak’s secret twin who just happened to wear a trench coat and a blue tie, but this man needed help. Now. Heaving, Sam lifted him in a fireman’s carry, slightly off balance because he’d expected him to be heavier, and he rushed to the front door of the bunker.

With fingers numb from the cold, he punched the numbers of the security lock of the front door, car be damned, and descended the stairs as carefully as he could while his mind still reeled with this new development.

He’d take a New Big Bad, hell—he’d take a Fourth Apocalypse, as long as it got him Castiel back.

 

* * *

 

Castiel didn’t wake, but lying in a bed with clean clothes and warm IV fluids improved his condition a bit. At least he wasn’t in a coma, his skin had gone from bluish to pale, and even the tips of his fingers we warming up. His consciousness seemed to have reached to just below the surface, with him groaning in discomfort as he began to shake hard enough to rattle the bed. Sam’s finger hovered just above the call button, sometimes the number was 911, sometimes it was Dean’s.

But he couldn’t call his brother—not until he knew what this was. What it _meant_.

Dean had barely gotten over Cas’s death, Sam would not make him go through it again. Not until he was sure this was _their_ Cas.

But what _was_ he doing there? Sam sat on a chair next to Dean’s old bed, fingers entwined under his chin as he studied the angel. _Was_ he an angel? For all he knew, it wasn’t even Cas. But the more he tried to think about why anyone would wear his face, the more he hoped _something_ had happened — _anything_ , even a Big Bad Thing — because they still needed him. After all this time, they still needed him.

After the shakes subsided, he delved into a deeper slumber. Angels slept, but they didn’t succumb to the elements.

Had it been a little colder, had the evening brought with it the snow the weatherman kept promising, had he stayed in and watch Netflix after all, had he not seen him lying on the ground… It was a miracle. It couldn’t be another Cosmic Enemy, not when everything could’ve gone wrong, and it had still gone right.

As though to contradict him, Cas moaned and began to wheeze.

_Shit._ Since he didn’t know for sure if he was an angel or a man, Sam would have to treat him like a human with severe hypothermia. With a resolute nod to himself, he put down the phone and, with a practiced move, changed the IV bag to a warmer one. He checked the dry, warm towels he’d placed on his chest, armpits, and groin. The thermometer beeped again—not quite where Sam wanted him, but warmer than three hours ago.

It had been over 180 minutes, and he could still barely believe his eyes.

Sam eyed the items he’d also arranged on the previously empty desk: holy water, iron, silver, a wooden stake, an angel blade, and cuffs… He’d yet to try them. As the minutes ticked by, he became more convinced the man on the bed was human—a once dead one.

_He’s alive._

He remembered the moment like yesterday.

The gray world on the other side of the interdimensional rift, the smell of ash, sweat, and blood. Lucifer. Crowley.

And when they’d escaped, still rattled at what the world looked like on the other side, Cas had stormed out, eyes focused solely on them as his coat flapped behind him. Sam had been too stunned, too overwhelmed with the implications of what of that world looked like to notice the Devil creep out behind his brother before an explosion of light flashed in the darkness.

Dean’s scream still echoed in his ears.

And those wings… The scorched patch of black on the ground. They’d seen their fair share of marks during their rapport with the angels but those... They’d been broken, barely resembling the shadows his brother had sworn he’d seen upon his raising from Perdition.

Dean had shoveled the scorched dirt into a bedsheet and burned it along Cas’s body on the pyre.

There had been punches and praying, and begging, and pleading. God had brought Castiel back before, they’d been sure He’d bring him back again.

They’d been wrong—except… Had they?

“Cas,” Sam called, but the words died again on his tongue. _It has to be him._ But what if it wasn’t? _But who else can it be?_ Anything.

_Bring it on, just give him back._

However, his voice seemed to reach him and Sam inhaled sharply as he leaned forward, not daring to blink. Cas had recovered some color in his cheeks, and he shook his head as he roused himself awake.

“Cas, Cas,” Sam repeated. He’d intended for his voice to come out firm, reassuring, but even to his ears, it sounded like a frightened whisper. “Wake up.”

And if there was ever a doubt of who lay in bed, it vanished when Cas finally opened his eyes. Sure, they’d once been fooled by Lucifer in Jimmy’s vessel… But… _It’s him._ He breathed in relief and trepidation. _How…_

“Cas…”

Cas’s gaze flickered to the ceiling and sluggishly moved his head until he faced Sam. Those blue eyes widened in relief and confusion. Sam’s eyes stung as he grinned and a bark of laughter escaped him.

Castiel breathed in as though to respond—but a hoarse cough interrupted whatever it was he wanted to say. Instead of abating, it soon grew deeper down his lungs until his whole body convulsed with the attack.

“Shit,” Sam breathed, leaning forward to help Cas sit up, rubbing his back to soothe the spasms. One-handed, he piled pillows behind him. “Breathe, man. I’ve got you.” There was a glass of… holy water, which he reached for and handed him. Cas took it with trembling fingers, but just in case Sam held it to his lips. “Slowly.”

As soon as he swallowed the water, he coughed again, hard enough that Sam reached the empty trash can under the desk with his leg in case he was about to spew.

Miraculously, he kept it down and when he leaned back, his face was flushed and covered with a sheen of cold sweat. His eyes were open but unfocused.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam repeated, alarmed as his eyes began to close. He needed to know if he was lucid—if he remembered them. God forbid he’d met another Emmanuel on the road.

Cas met his gaze, cloudy and distant. “S’m…”

Before he promptly passed out again.

“Well, shit…”

 

* * *

 

Sam startled awake when a coughing fit broke the silence of the bunker. It took a moment for him to remember why he was sitting on Dean’s chair, and when Cas was still there — and proved not to be a weird, very realistic dream — his chest almost burst with relief. A short-lived one, as the attack didn’t abate and his face was turning purple with exertion. Something was wrong with his lungs.

_At least he’s alive enough to_ have _lungs._ He rushed forward, half-relieved when he was met with hot skin instead of a human icicle.

With soft, insistent touches, he turned Cas to the side in case he vomited and kept rubbing his back. He could hear the coughs reverberate deep in his chest, wet and heavy, and for a moment he wondered if he would have to call the ambulance, anyway. Before he could make the choice, however, it finally died down and Cas managed to breathe in without choking.

“Shit Cas… what happened?” he mused out loud.

“...pty…”

Sam almost left go of Cas’s shoulders, he hadn’t expected an actual response. Questions again burned in the back of his throat but he reigned them in, schooled his face into a calm he wasn’t feeling, and leaned him upright on the pillows. Then, he reached for the abandoned glass of water.

“Drink some more.”

Cas dangled on the edge of unconsciousness, but at the least, the promise of water drew him out of his stupor. Sam held the glass to his lips, tilting it so he wouldn’t drown. He let out a few coughs, but they quickly soothed. After he got his answers, though, Sam was taking him to the hospital whether or not he liked it. The last thing they needed was to lose him to pneumonia.

He swallowed thickly, willing his racing heart to stop, his breathing to even. Sam needed answers, but only when Cas could give them.

A few moments later, Cas turned his head, so Sam put the almost empty glass back on the stand and watched him. He’d studied his features for hours on end the night before — a quick glance proved it to be five thirty in the morning — but he still marveled. _Dean. I need to tell Dean._ And yet he didn’t dare call him, not yet.

Cas’s closed eyes twitched, and Sam watched expectantly, waiting for him to either fall asleep or wake… Fortunately, he opened them and they were clear, focused underneath the veil of exhaustion. Sam’s breath hitched.

“Sam…” Cas’s voice was deeper than he recalled, maybe because of his aching lungs, maybe because he remembered things differently. But that was the first time he’d said his name clearly, so Sam grinned, eyes burning.

“Yeah, man. It’s me.”

Cas was staring at him with that intensity he’d always taken for granted. Instead of looking, he _searched_ into people’s souls, drank in their whole being. Sam didn’t break eye contact, instead, let him absorb what he’d missed without blinking. For a moment it felt as though nothing had changed, as though Cas hadn’t died and come back when no one was looking.

“Jesus, Cas…” Sam breathed, a hot flash blinding him as he leaned forward on his knees, suddenly unable to face him. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, hot tears streaming down his fingers. “You’re back…”

“I never… intended to leave.” And there was so much regret in those words, a hitch at the end, that Sam chuckled.

“I know.”

“Sam, you’re...” He gathered the courage to look up and chuckled at Cas’s wide eyes. He coughed again before croaking his next words. “How long was I gone?”

Sam gave a mirthless laugh. “Ten years, Cas.”

 

* * *

 

Everything had more or less fallen apart after Castiel’s death. Their mother had been dragged to the Apocalypse world with Lucifer, the Nephilim was born an anxiety-ridden, all-powerful teenager, and the last Prince of Hell, Asmodeus, quickly rose to become the antagonist of the season. Dean and himself had tackled one problem at the time and it all grew worse before it became better.

It had been so long ago, and so many Earth-shattering occurrences had wrecked the planet afterward, it was hard to keep track.

Cas held onto consciousness desperately, absorbing every bit of information, asking pointed questions, slurring words when exhaustion crept up again.

“We needed to find a way back to that world,” Sam explained, eyes closed, reliving the arguments he’d had with Dean for months. “We figured that, since Jack had opened the portal the first time, he could open it again… so we trained him.”

He skipped the part of Dean’s anger, his frustration with Jack when he rebelled. He didn’t mention when Jack’s powers had accidentally killed an innocent man. Instead, he recalled with a genuine fond smile the hours they’d sat together in the library and practiced moving a pencil with his mind. The late nights and well-deserved breaks—Dean warming up to Jack. For a moment, a replay of Dean’s playful words “Team Free Will 2.0” almost slipped, but he kept them in. Dean had regretted them immediately upon realizing their original third member was gone.

“Asmodeus took Crowley’s throne,” Sam continued. “He was powerful—he even captured Lucifer.”

“ _Lucifer_?”

Sam bit the inside of his lips, noticing Cas’s red-rimmed eyes. “Yeah, he escaped the Apocalypse word—he left mom behind, but Jack saved her when he opened a rift again. That’s why Lucifer couldn’t find Jack when he came back here and how Asmodeus captured him. Turns out, he was feeding on Gabriel’s grace…”

Cas’s eyes widened, but before he could work himself to another fit, Sam raised his hand to keep him quiet so he could explain.

“Gabe faked his death. I know. But Ketch, yes, _that_ one, rescued him and brought him here. Turns out Gabriel had more juice than he knew… He fried Asmodeus. Then we, um…” He frowned, trying to piece together his memories. “Rowena helped us open the rift again, and we found mom and Jack.” He grinned. “Apparently, that other world happened because our mom didn’t make a deal with Azazel, so dad died young and we were never born. Things happened differently for everybody, and Bobby, Charlie, Kevin, Ellen, Jo… they were all alive. They came over here to prepare to fight Michael — yes, _that_ Michael — and we even trapped him and Lucifer in that other world for a while.”

Cas stared, eyes unblinking. His face was flushed and his eyes glassy, but intensely focused. Sam frowned. That barely brushed the surface of what happened the _first year_ Cas had been gone, and he had skipped key happenings, but that seemed a good place as any to stop talking and let Cas absorb all that information. Sam could do with the time to organize a timeline in his head — if he was going to bring him up to date — and if he overwhelmed him with more shocking information, it might take a toll on his health.

If he hadn’t already.

“...what happened?” Cas panted, closing his eyes with a shaky sigh.

“We pulled ourselves together, joined forces with Bobby’s faction, and waited.”

Cas glared at him, lips turned downward, obviously expecting him to keep talking. “Then…?”

“Cas—you just got back. That was nine years ago.” Cas flinched at the reminder. “I’ll tell you everything, but you need to rest…”

Sam frowned when Cas shook his head, breaths breaking up in smaller coughs. He shifted restlessly in bed, pushing the blankets aside though starting to shiver. Alarmed, Sam put his hand over his forehead and cheek and recoiled at the heat. What had begun as hypothermia had quickly turned into a blistering temperature.

“Everything turned out okay, so you don’t have to worry ab—”

“— _Dean_.”

Sam’s brows pinched. “Dean’s fine.”

“Where— _where_ is he…” Cas insisted. Sam sat up, alarmed. He rapidly seemed to spiral into delirium. “You’ve told me what happened after I died, about you, and Dean, and Jack… but where is Dean _now_ ? Why isn’t he… _here_?”

Sam watched helplessly as Cas clawed the blankets, searching for his brother with unseeing fever-bright eyes, Dean’s name in his chapped lips. Then, with the same abruptness of his resurrection, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he quieted, still as dead. _Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	3. Drop Everything and Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Suicidal thoughts. Suicide idealization. Heavy angst.

Dean Winchester hummed to himself as he stuffed the paper bags of groceries into the back seat of his Impala. Years ago, a neighbor had asked him why he didn’t use the trunk and he’d lied — truth was, it was packed with guns, knives, and spell ingredients including human blood. Now, everything except the barest of hunting necessities was squashed in in case of an emergency, and instead, the space was currently taken out by a newly bought Ikea bookcase he planned on building that weekend. He’d been wanting one for all the books Alex and Patience kept sending him.

With a mental electrical guitar solo playing in his mind, he nodded to himself as he opened the driver’s side and slid in. Without thinking twice, he plugged his smartphone into the hub Sam had installed for him and hit the ‘random’ key before he pulled out of his parking spot and drove home. Tony Thompson’s voice soothed the Impala’s familiar roar, and he kept his head blissfully blank as he navigated the road to his house. He was good at that — keeping his brain empty even when he had time to think.

He’d found out the hard way that, if he allowed himself to  _ think _ , he stopped functioning altogether.

“ _ Cause it was just the first time, _ ” he sang, tapping his finger on the wheel as he pulled into the driveway. “ _ And you knew you would. _ ” With a satisfied beat, he interrupted the song when he turned off the engine.

He closed the door with a satisfying thump, dug out his groceries, and headed toward the old, two-story house. The grass was suffering due to the cold winter, but a recent bout of warmish weather had thawed the ice, and at least he wouldn’t be slipping and cracking his skull wherever he walked. He’d even dared to take Baby to the supermarket without chains; he hated driving her in them, but she’d suffered enough bangs and beatings to last them a dozen lifetimes. The minimum he could do was care for her during their retirement.

_ Don’t go there. _

Clearing his throat, he stepped onto the porch; the wood creaking under his feet. He’d liked that — back when he bought the house, he’d appreciated the history and its personality. At that time, Dean had craved noise, even spooky groans and the whisper of ghosts, rather than the silence of a sturdier structure. Five years later, he didn’t regret moving out of the Bunker, though he missed Sam something fierce.

_ I owe him a visit. _

He hadn’t driven to Lawrence in over four months. Sammy usually visited during Christmas, but that year he and Patience had begun taking in apprentices as heads of the American Chapter of the Men of Letters. A fancy title for a job that consisted of reading old books and writing new ones, and teaching younger people to read old books and write new ones. He scoffed to himself as he dug out his key and opened his door, stepping over the demon trap and the old marking of an angel banishing sigil. He’d had to use those just a couple of times since moving, but now young hunters were in the field kicking ass, while he kicked his feet up the coffee table and stared blankly at the TV.

Dean put the bags on the kitchen counter, fished out a bottle of warm beer. He uncapped it with a conveniently placed opener and took a swing. He grimaced. After placing his shopping in the fridge and freezer, he found his way to the old sofa and turned on the news. It was mostly politics — the country was still hurting ten years after some idiots had elected a buffoon — but some sensationalist headlines crept into the program. He half-listened to the accounts of domestic violence, a car crash on a busy highway, and a shooting in a bank. All tragedies, but nothing related to monsters or his old life as a hunter.

Retirement was a blessing and a curse. Not putting his life in the line, not fearing death, not facing the End of the World on a yearly basis was nice and dandy, but it meant squat when one hated himself as much as Dean Winchester. That’s what his psychiatrist said, anyway. And living in the woods, even as the head of the Hunting Network, did little to ease the years on the edge. He sometimes trained wayward young youths here and there when Jody sent them his way, which kept him busy, but recently Claire had taken over his teaching position. He was proud of the kid — not a kid anymore — but he was now out of a job, and boredom did weird things to his brain.

Ever since they’d successfully re-established Heaven and closed the Gates of Hell almost six years ago, work had been slow on the monster side. There were still bumps in the night, rogue monsters that needed to be hunted, ghosts to vanish, but nothing on the Apocalyptic level. Jody and her girls, the “Wayward Sisters,” had taken the reigns while Sam and he had recovered, and stayed on the driving seat while they faded into the background.

That should make him happy, but he was not meant to be a happy person.

He downed the rest of the beer.

Now, he was a high-functioning alcoholic with PTSD, slowly approaching his fiftieth birthday. Considering he’d always hoped to die swinging, join those lost on the way, it was a goddamn miracle-slash-curse.

He was approaching dangerous territory in his mind, and he could almost envision Dr. Fields’s frowning face. She tried hard to change his mindset — to help him direct his anger away from himself and turn it into forgiveness and acceptance. He wasn’t sure why he still went to her, but it helped that she knew about the Supernatural and didn’t bat an eyelid when he talked about Lucifer, God, or the Antichrist.

Donna had recommended her a few days after he’d woken up from the coma the hospital had induced him in. By that time, he’d owed her and Jody enough to try it and not eat a bullet— _ Nope, not going there. _

And here he was, five years later. Apparently stable  and  living the life of the ordinary American who just sometimes killed monsters if someone needed him in the field. He felt like a messed up  Bobby Singer, except  Bobby was actually worth something.

His gaze flickered to the kitchen cupboard where he kept his 9mm. He looked away and turned the volume of the TV up.

“ _... the disappearance of a commemorative coin. Theft is believed to… _ ”

Unless vampires or werewolves developed a taste for memorabilia, he had squat.  _ We fixed the world, it’s good that there  _ are no _ cases. _ The voice eerily resembled Sam's.

Claire said he needed a hobby.

As Dean was about to Google a list of hobbies for men in their mid-life crisis, his phone rang. He nodded his head to the intro of ‘The Eye of the Tiger’ before catching his brother’s name on the screen. At least that beat always cheered him up. Maybe he could do music. Start a band or something.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said.

“Dean.” He sat up straight, turning off the TV. This wasn’t a social call. His mind flew to different possibilities: a case? Was someone hurt on a hunt? “You need to come to the Bunker.”

Dean blinked, frowning. “What? Something happen? Is it Mom?”

“What—no. No. She’s fine.” Sam’s voice sounded on the verge of panic. “Nobody’s hurt, but you need to come here.”

“Sam, for fuck’s sake, tell me what the hell’s—”

“—Poughkeepsie.”

 

* * *

 

It usually took Dean six hours on a slow day to get to the Bunker, but with his foot flooring the pedal, he made it in little over five. Dusk had set in, tinting the sky a dark purple and navy blue, but Dean knew the curves home like the palm of his hand. He activated the automatic door of the garage and gracefully parked Baby in his favorite corner, still empty, still his, despite Sam’s constant teasing he would take it away from him.

Jaw set, he got off the car and burst the door open, rushing down the metallic stairs. Surely Sam heard his footsteps, but he couldn’t help himself from shouting “Sammy!”

The comfortable weight of his handgun soothed his nerves, the safety unlocked and his finger hovering over the trigger. He’d rather have whatever threat Sam was facing jump at him, than let him hurt his baby brother for another second. Plus, he thought as he stuck his back to the wall and peered over the edge to the hallway, he might go out swinging today after all.

“Sammy!” Dean called out again.

He inhaled sharply when there was a crash on the other side where the bedrooms were. He pointed his gun at the entrance and waited.

“Dean?!”

Waiting quietly, all his senses focused, he deflated when he saw his brother rush out of the bedroom, face pale, a week-old stubble and dark bags under his eyes. Dean stared, studying Sam’s haggard expression. He looked positively exhausted, maybe carrying the last dregs of a nasty cold or even the flu, but Sam had  _ never  _ used their code for an illness. Had he just come back from a hunt he hadn’t told Dean about? Dean checked Sam’s old jeans and plaid shirt, both wrinkled, but clean.

“Sam, what the—”

As though he hadn’t been the one to call him, Sam stood there, eyes wide open, mouth downturned in a thin line. His shoulders were pulled backward in tension, his fists clenched. Dean frowned, gun low.

“I don’t know…” Sam cleared his throat, and before Dean could object, he spoke again. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Don’t know how to tell me—for fuck’s sake, Sam, you used the code!” Irritation clawed in the back of his spine. “You don’t use the code unless you mean it! Are you in danger? Did something happen?!”

The panic he’d barely kept at bay while speeding, the prayers he’d sent for Sam’s safety to make it on time, the hundreds of scenarios he’d imagined upon entering the Bunker… They whirled in a mass of fear and anger. They’d had too many brushes with death — heck, they’d both  _ died  _ numerous times, but they had the word for a  _ reason _ ! What on Earth was so important that Dean had to ‘drop everything and run’ for Sam not to be able to form  _ words _ ? He’d expected a hostage situation, a curse, the End Of The World 4.0!

“You know if you wanted to see me, you could’ve Facetime’d me,” he spat.

Sam glared at him. “You’re a jerk, Dean. Come, it’s better if you see for yourself…”

For a moment, it even felt like the old times. To before Dean left the Bunker, when they’d been whole and… pseudo-fine. Distance hadn’t created a rift between them, not really, but Dean missed the banter he’d once taken for granted. Sure, he’d been the one to move away for everybody’s sake, but the nostalgia ate him alive at moments like these. Both annoyance and curiosity a phantom itch on his skin, he walked down the familiar corridor.

“What the...” He stared at the hanging replicas of several of Van Gogh’s paintings, framed and all. “Sam, have you been letting Patience deco—”

“Now’s not the time,” Sam hissed, shaking his head.

Dean arched his eyebrows before furrowing them. Whatever had Sam’s panties in a twist, it had to be more serious than he thought. Dread twisted his guts. Sam stopped at the door of his old bedroom, and as Dean opened his mouth to attempt a joke on pests infestations, he noticed Sam’s  lips  thin, fists clenched tight.  _ This is not good. _ The good humor he’d regained with the boost of adrenaline and the relief of having Sam safe and sound evaporated.

Poughkeepsie. _ ‘Drop everything and run.’ _

Dean stood immobile, for some reason afraid to open the door as Sam seemed to expect him to do. Of course it couldn’t be good.

Nothing good ever happened to Dean Winchester.

“Dammit, Sam, what is it.”

Sam exhaled slowly, deeply. “Before you go in,” he said. “You need to know—this is not a bad thing.” Whatever he was going to say next was drowned by a muffled sound on the other side. Dean stared at Sam, startled, before turning wearily to the door.

He trusted his brother’s instincts enough not to jump in, guns blazing, and instead concentrated on the voice, a deep raspy cough, painful and long. Dean studied his brother again, noting again the paleness and the bags under his eyes, and recognized the look of an exhausted caregiver, not the strain of a disease. And then, there it was. The glint of trepidation in Sam’s eyes, big and shiny, the rare mix of elation and fear only experienced hunters managed to pull off.

“You won't need that.” Sam signaled at Dean’s firearm, and Dean nodded, fingers so tense they almost refused to put the safe back on and bury it in the back of his jeans.

“What is it, Sammy?”

He’d intended for his voice to come out impatient, annoyed, to bully his brother into giving him the answers. But Sam just kept his expression schooled. The coughing on the other side grew deeper and more strenuous.

Something snapped, and Dean huffed, slamming the door open.

 

* * *

 

The room was bathed in darkness. The smell hit him first, poignant, sour with the lack of windows and ventilation. Sweat, vomit, and other body odors only the ill gave off, wafted in the air and escaped through the open door. Dean grimaced, only years of hunting monsters with otherworldly stenches in his belt stopping him from covering his nose.

The coughing man in the bed leaned over its edge, almost on the verge of falling off. There were IVs hanging, a bucket on the ground, and a bowl with water and a rag floating. Something pinged with recognition in the back of his mind, a sense of urgency pushing him forward to help. Yet Dean kept his feet grounded with the same stubbornness as Sam’s patient, whose head was down, a mop of messy black hair obscuring his features.

An irrational pull gripped him from his navel and he took a tentative step.

When the endless fit finally abated, the man groaned and Dean’s hair stood on end, his skin breaking out his goosebumps, lungs deflating with a sudden vacuum of air. His stomach did a somersault which, combined with the stench, made him take a step back. And another.

_ No. _

Sam walked past him, shooting him a worried glance over his shoulder, a grade-A doe-eyed, sad face. When Sam knelt next to the bed, leaving the office chair unoccupied, he held onto the shoulders clad in Dean’s old flannel pajamas and maneuvered the man onto Dean’s old pillows, covered him in Dean’s old duvet and sheets, on Dean’s old foam memory mattress.

His breath hitched when he saw the face.

Pale, gaunt, the closed eyes were sunken in their sockets, bruised dark purple with fatigue. Familiar pink lips were chapped and bloodless, open as he struggled for air, chest and stomach heaving with effort, the liquid in his lungs almost audible. Or maybe that was the blood rushing in Dean’s ears as he took it all in. A white face, scratch that, gray, pinched with exhaustion, a sheen of sweat bathing his skin like rain.

Dean’s breath hitched when he whimpered, a pitiful sound reminiscent of the bad old times, those moments of horror and disbelief when he’d almost died in his arms… back when he’d still been alive. Back when terror had twisted and broken something in Dean because there still had been something left to twist and break.

Sam shifted, momentarily blocking Dean’s view, as he fished the old rag and drained the excess water off it. With careful, practiced hands, he lay it on his forehead.

Dean took a step forward — then another — then another, until Sam had to move away. His brother was watching him, but Dean couldn’t see his expression because he only had eyes for the single figure on the bed.

Tentative fingers stretched out to touch the face, sweat coating his fingertips as he registered the radiating heat of his skin.

That was good. The last time he’d touched him, he’d been cold.

“Dean…” Sam began to talk but quieted.

In the bed, Castiel, the angel of the Lord and man who’d given everything for the Winchester brothers, who’d been cursed by them the moment he’d laid his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean should’ve stayed in Hell—Cas would’ve stayed alive. A soulless, empty hammer perhaps, but  _ there _ . Dean deserved Hell—but Cas? He deserved anything but the cards he’d had to deal with.

When was the last time he’d  _ thought _ about Cas?

He hadn’t, had he?

Because the grief had almost killed him, and he was too much of a coward to revisit those feelings when he was finally,  _ finally  _ functional.

Cas opened his eyes, bluer than he’d remembered. A flicker of recognition shone along with the burning fever, and Dean deflated, his knees growing weak as the memories of Castiel dying flashed before him. He’d carried the body, dug the grave, gathered the dirt with the soiled wings, and lit the pyre himself. He’d begged, pleaded, thrown himself in the path of death and danger because nothing else mattered.

And yet he’d survived, and Castiel had stayed dead.

The grief had almost killed him.

Castiel whispered something in a trembling voice, raspy with sickness, his skin flushing red as his glassy eyes widened with recognition and his breaths quickened. Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Cas attempted to speak again, but nothing made it past his lips.

They stared at each other, an insatiable hunger flaring up in Dean’s body which didn’t abate as he studied, unblinking, the angel who’d given everything and gotten zilch in return. He drank in the hue of his high cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the bluest eyes he’d never dreamed of seeing again. Even in his dreams, Castiel was dead, and it was all Dean’s fault.

He heard Sam as though through a distorted radio, or a garble underwater.

And then he finally caught it.

Cas’s voice reverberated in his body like a comfortable current of electricity. “Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!   
> And happy Season14!


	4. Bits and Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Graphic depictions of illness. Heavy angst. Depression. Suicide idealization. Alcoholism.

Castiel remembered little. One moment he’d hit the pavement in the desert, the next he was on his feet walking south. He recalled several instances where he’d found himself sprawled in the middle of nowhere, and a hazy growing desperation to move—first with shaking knees, eventually dragging himself with his elbows. He’d lost time often enough to have lost track of the nights and days he’d been on the move, though he would never forget the agony of thirst shredding his insides.

Next thing he knew, shouts, a tight grip on his shoulder, and rough manhandling zapped him back to a state of semi-awareness. Echoes bounced in his mind, breaking tangled threads of consciousness into a familiar pattern; a mission, a purpose. Sam. Dean. The Bunker. _Home._ Hearing Sam’s voice might’ve been a hallucination, but Castiel clung to it with the desperation of he who has nothing to lose. He clawed his way to the surface, his body spasming with invisible jolts, sight blurred, sounds distorted.

“...as… Ca… wake… Cas…”

Castiel’s breath hitched with recognition, heart hammering wildly in his chest, pounding so hard his ribs protested. _He recognized that voice._ He opened his mouth, vision blurring at the effort, but before he could call out Sam Winchester’s name something inside his ribs broke. Punches upon punches rained on his sternum, his lungs burning with strain, crackling with a viscous substance. The more he tried to breathe in the less oxygen he reached—he panicked, he felt his eyes widen but saw nothing but black and purple spots dance, a rush like a waterfall blasting over Sam’s shouts.

Something warm slithered under him, lifting him, completely blackening his eyesight as he was rushed under a vacuum of nothingness—and then, the attack on his ribs dulled into a bearable ache.

“Breathe, man. I’ve got you.” _Sam. It’s Sam!_

A cold substance touched his mouth, and he opened up, relief flooding him as the water trickled down — his hand closing in on something, wrapped tightly by big, familiar hands.

“Slowly.”

As soon as it reached the back of his throat, the reprieve evaporated as he drowned, his midriff stiff with tension as his chest exploded inward, jerking him, stabbing him, the strain pulling his muscles like they were about to snap. The water fought to come back up, but he forced it down—he needed it. He was human, and he _needed_ it.

Slowly, the coughing and spasming quieted, and oxygen finally made it to his lungs successfully. A wheezing sound whistled when he drew in a breath.

“Hey, hey, hey.”

Castiel startled, eyes open, a shiver wrecking him as he realized how cold he was. He tried to tell Sam, but then darkness claimed him.

 

* * *

 

_Ten years._ Whenever Castiel opened his eyes and recalled Sam’s words, the weight of time crushed him. How? Had The Empty done it on purpose? Had It known where— _when_ It sent Castiel back? Was it a punishment for waking up, for confronting It? When he’d tried to voice these questions, Sam’s brows furrowed in confusion and concern. He was obviously struggling to understand that, for Castiel, he’d last seen the Winchester brothers less than a week ago.

And for them, it had been a decade.

Small wrinkles he didn’t remember lined Sam’s face, around his eyes when he tried to read for too long, his mouth when he squinted until he got a headache… His big body, which he carried with power, now hunched ever so slightly, his joints cracked when he moved too suddenly. His long, rich brown hair was dusted with white, a thread thinner at the temples. But it was his eyes—the way he looked at Castiel every time he entered the room, that spoke the loudest.

Sam Winchester had outlived him for ten years, and he’d suffered so much he’d lost the precious twinkle of innocence he’d somehow always preserved. There was defeat, sadness, grief, and it took Castiel a few long days and some moments of lucidity to understand those were all directed at _him_.

Sam had _mourned_ him, and like all the loved ones he’d lost on the way, he’d let go.

His being back opened old wounds when they’d already scarred and healed over.

_Maybe I should’ve stayed dead._ Castiel stared at the ceiling, his chest rattling with every inhale and exhale. His whole body was covered his sweat — his fever must’ve broken again, though now he shook with chills. Sam nursed him back to health, sitting beside him, cooling him down with cold cloths, changing the IV, rubbing his shoulders when he coughed so hard he sometimes passed out. Now, Sam slept in an awkward position on the chair, snoring softly. Castiel watched over him like he wished he’d been able to do all these years.

Sam had given him a summary of all the events he’d missed. The Apocalypse world, the return of Lucifer and Michael, the third — and so far last — Apocalypse where both Sam and Dean had almost lost their lives, the years they’d retired. Sam had built up the American Chapter of the Men of Letters along with a friend he called Patience, and he trained the newer generation in the lore. They usually lived in the Bunker, but Castiel suspected Sam kept his pupils away while Castiel convalesced.

His fingers twitched whenever his thoughts drifted toward Dean. Sam tried to keep the conversation away from his brother, and Castiel had learned not to push... but the intrigue was more painful than his bruised ribs. He didn’t berate Sam for it though. From what he’d been able to gather, Dean hadn’t taken his death well, so he worried about his reaction when he discovered Castiel was, somehow, back.

The ache, however, this powerful agony of not knowing where Dean, his charge, was… It would kill him if this illness didn’t.

 

* * *

 

While Sam seemed most concerned about his fever and dehydration — Castiel obsessed about filling in all the blanks. At every waking moment, Castiel would ask for details on accounts Sam skimmed over, sometimes several times as his mind refused to keep track and remember.

“Dean… D-dean…”

It was a strange sensation. On one hand, his brain fired shots blindly at attempts to asking questions, but his mouth seemed unable to perform. Instead, all he did was beg for Dean, despite knowing full well Sam didn’t want to answer that question. He wanted to stop himself, to take control of the situation, to reassure Sam that he wasn’t losing his mind—and yet… There he was, whimpering sounds he couldn’t reign in, fingers twitching in search of someone he knew wasn’t coming.

“... ean…” Castiel twitched and turned toward Sam’s voice, trying to swim across the fog of flames he’d been trapped in forever. “You need to come to the Bunker.”

His breath hitched and a bubble burst inside his sternum—he pulled it in, eagerly drinking in Sam’s next words.

“What—no. No. She’s fine. Nobody’s hurt, but you need to come here.” There was a pause. Castiel strained his ears trying to catch Dean’s voice through the telephone, except now his chest burned as well. “Poughkeepsie.”

A hand turned him over as the fit finally broke out, whistles deafening the sound of his retching. “It’s okay man, it’s okay. He’s coming. Dean’s coming.”

Before Castiel could respond, his surroundings flickered in and out while he danced over the line of nothingness. He wanted to apologize, and as he got the words ready, a whirl of light and dark blended and took him elsewhere. He wished he could shout in frustration, to yell at the world to stand still so that he could catch up, longing for a time when his celestial powers had made everything so easy—but then there was a rustle somewhere and Sam said something in a soft voice but…

Was Castiel hallucinating again? He’d been doing that, according to Sam. But no, because the Dean he usually came up with was a man in his late thirties with the eyes of an old soul. He’d gotten used to dreaming of Dean back when he’d been the Righteous Man, when he’d worn the leather jacket, the plaid shirts, the easy smiles and haunted look. His broken mind kept bringing forth the Dean he’d almost killed with his fists, the Dean who’d searched for him in Purgatory, the Dean whose eyes filled with dread before Lucifer’s blade pierced his chest.

But that blurry man standing on the door, holding on to the frame…

It wasn’t the gentle reminder of the years he’d missed; he noticed those in his lined face, his salt-and-pepper stubble, the old scar he’d never seen run down his eye to his cheek. It wasn’t his clothes, the faded jeans, the red and blue shirt with the cuffs rolled to his elbows.

Castiel breathed in in relief when Dean’s fingers rested on his forehead, cool and blessed. He absently wondered when Dean had crossed the room from the door to his bed, but it didn’t matter. He needed to get words out. He had to. Because if this Dean was real, if this Dean was _here_ , he had to—he _had_ to—the air was thin, but he pushed.

“Hello, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

“—spital!? He’s half-dead!”

Castiel startled awake, gasping like a fish out of water, the air grating at his throat like blunt nails. His heart beat wildly in his chest, knocking on sore ribs, raw with the endless coughs. He’d given up on understanding time by now, perhaps Sam was right and he needed to get better first before he could begin to grasp the magnitude of his own return.

Thoughts seemed to glide easily in his mind, finally unmuddled and silent, rid of sounds that weren’t there. He almost felt—good. Everything ached, his eyes prickled with the light seeping through the open door from the corridor, his muscles twitched with exhaustion with the painful echoes of the roads he’d walked after The Empty had kicked him out. Castiel was positive he’d spent a long time in bed and in the care of Sam Winchester, and yet he felt as though his human body had been stretched thin and pounded.

Distant memories reached him—the decade he’d missed. The bits and pieces Sam had narrated.

He was drenched, the pajamas — had Sam dressed him as well? — wet and smelly and clinging to him like a second skin.

Sighing, he fought against the wave of a coughing fit—and epically lost the battle.

Sam seemed to have heard him because footsteps thundered in the hallway… Wait. Were those two pairs of…? Castiel forced himself to focus and the attack almost stopped with the shock of seeing Dean standing there. Before he could speak, Dean dashed forward and sat on the bed with him, big, strong hands bodily lifting him, manhandling him into a sitting position. Soft pillows took his weight— it felt like falling — and Castiel only realized he’d closed his eyes when, upon opening them, Dean stared at him with unblinking eyes, wide and scared.

“Your fever broke.” His voice was the same.

Castiel wanted to nod but stayed still; he yearned to listen and feared another fit would either break his chest or muffle Dean’s words.

_Dean…_

“Fuck, Cas…”

Castiel had forgotten how green Dean’s eyes were, how they sparkled with raging emotions behind an invisible hard shield. Humans made it clear in their literature, their souls shone in them—except Dean’s, but only unless you knew where to look. Castiel drank in every shadow, every speck of light, trying to convey everything he didn’t dare say out loud in case he messed it up. He’d done enough of that back when he’d been alive, when he hadn’t been dead for ten years.

The grief hit him like a wave and Castiel breathed it in, Dean’s pain washing down his lungs and freezing them. There had always been a spark in his eyes, Cas had watched him often enough to know; a dash of a special kind of agony, a bone-deep wail. Yet even in the darkest and grimmest of moments, when his loved ones had dropped dead one after the other, there’d still been that childish clinging to the hope that, as long as his brother Sam was fine, it would be alright.

But this—This wasn’t it. Sam hovered silently behind his brother, whole, safe, healthy.

And Dean stared at him as though the world had disintegrated.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Dean shook his head as he placed the back of his hand on Castiel’s forehead.

“Don’t,” Dean said, his voice rough. “You’ve been coughing up a storm and your ribs are bruised.”

Castiel didn’t dare nod. Instead, he watched, in awe.

“I’ve brought ice chips,” Sam added, walking forward with a glass.

“I’ll do it.” Dean distractedly reached out, taking it.

“I’ll get him some new pajamas, then,” Sam said, nodding. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. “Be right back.”

The door closed behind him, and Castiel’s breath hitched when he realized Dean hadn’t stopped studying him. He wanted to speak, to ask questions, to…

Apologize.

Dean nodded, finally glancing away. He fished an ice chip and placed it on Castiel’s lips, which blissfully slipped in and cooled a fire he didn’t realize he’d been burning. It melted quickly, and it took every ounce of discipline not to moan in relief — Dean kept feeding them to him, the chips decreasing in number as awareness sharpened his mind.

And yet it remained comfortably blank. The bone-deep desperation to _know_ and _understand_ apparently sated, everything was still and peaceful. Perhaps because finally, _finally_ , he was home.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Castiel’s temperature returned to normal, the world seemed to stabilize around him in an almost vertiginous rate. Sleep came to at regular intervals, he rediscovered his appetite and the wonders of good food, and the coughing — although persistent — had cracked no ribs before his pneumonia began healing. He was able to form new memories and recall what they had told him even days ago. The timeline he lived in became clear, though he still couldn't piece together the tidbits of when he’d been the sickest.

Sam told him not to fret and insisted he take it easy until he’d recovered.

Castiel still wasn’t allowed to leave the Bunker, although he could roam about freely — as long as Sam was nearby in case he fell over. He’d noticed the changes, the redistribution of the furniture to comfortably house a bigger group of people. Locked rooms that had been previously unoccupied belonged to Sam’s team.

As Castiel regained his ability to hold conversations for longer periods of time, his opportunities to talk to the brothers multiplied. Sam, from day one, was forthcoming, honest and careful about the information he shared. He smiled fondly, his shock at Castiel’s return wearing off as the days went by, though sometimes his eyes glazed over and his voice broke unexpectedly. “I missed you, that’s all,” he’d said when Castiel asked why.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” He was. Regret churned his stomach, but then Sam flashed him a smile that made him look younger.

“Nah, man. I’m just glad you’re back.”

Where Sam remained the same, Dean had changed into a whole different person.

His kind, attentive demeanor at first took a nosedive. Despite not leaving the Bunker, despite always being in close proximity when Castiel’s legs gave out on him, despite being _there_ , Dean refused to spend time alone with him. He’d heard Sam’s angry whispers more than once, and whenever that happened Dean took yet another step back, away. The fridge, full of fresh vegetables and packed meat, began to share its space with cans of beer, and bottles of hard alcohol lined the kitchen counter.

If Castiel wandered and searched for him, Dean would spare him one look and leave the room. Sam had asked him not to take it personally.

He did.

“Dean, he’s…” Sam tried, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He has issues.”

Castiel bit back a scathing reply, because Sam was nothing but kind and deserved gratitude. “Why is he here?”

“I called him.” Sam shrugged. Castiel suspected it was because he’d begged him to while delirious. “He’s emotionally constipated. But he's glad you’re alive, you know that.”

Except he _didn’t_ know.

Because as the days went by and Castiel’s strength returned, Dean seemed to spiral out of control. He drank heavily, became aggressive when Sam demanded he get a grip. He would slam the door when he left the room as soon as Castiel entered it. In the dead of night, when he sometimes woke up, he would hear glass clink and heavy, painful thuds, and muffled shouts.

The healthy rhythm Castiel had learned slipped through his fingers. His stomach churned at the thought of food, no matter how much effort Sam put into it. At night, sleep would elude him as he strained his ears to listen to Dean, way at the end of the hallway — he’d offered to give his room back, but Dean had just scowled. The energy he’d built up in two weeks’ time dissolved until Sam warned him he was on the verge of a relapse.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about Dean’s reaction.

About The Empty’s words.

It had been right — he had no business being alive. He should’ve remained dead. Let The Empty push him into the deepest abyss of them all. Anything was preferable to this.

Sam had insisted he go to bed after he’d vomited dinner. He could hear the brothers yell at each other as though they’d forgotten him.

“...to him! You’re acting like a jerk, Dean!”

“Ten years, Sam! It took him _ten fucking years_ to come back, and now what? He expects everything to be the same?!”

“He didn’t choose to come back _now_! If you’d only listen to him you’d know what happened.”

“What ‘happened’? What happened is that he was _gone_ , Sammy. Gone. He left us.”

“He’s back and you’re acting like you don’t care.”

“He’s not the same, Sam, and you know it.”

“No, _he_ is the same. _You’re_ not the same. _We’re_ not the same! But we’re family and—”

“—spare me the speech! Family doesn’t just _leave_!”

“ _Mom_ left and you’re fine with _her_!”

“She was fucking murdered—”

“—so was Cas!”

Castiel sighed, closing his eyes, his head spinning with everything Dean hadn’t told him to his face. Regret clawed at his gut, the thread of hope he’d held on to dissolving to dust. He’d died, and they’d mourned and gotten over him — his return had yielded them nothing but pain and confusion. Had The Empty known all along?

If he died now, would it be better or worse?

“...should’ve stayed dead!”

As the words pierced his heart and brought forth a new wave of nausea, a stampede of feet thundered and his door — Dean’s door — slammed wide, hitting the wall and bouncing back until Dean’s fist kept it open. Castiel sat up on shaky arms, his lungs burning because he didn’t dare to breathe.

“Dean, _don’t_!”

Sam was too late because next thing he knew Dean had leaped forward, his hot fingers tightening on his collar and bodily lifting him, slamming him backward. His head banged the wall, a red coat of bright light flashing behind his eyelids as the pain cracked every atom in his skull. He heard shouting, maybe his own.

Dean’s sob pierced the high ringing in his ears. “You should’ve _stayed_ dead…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	5. Breaking down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Heavy angst. Self-hate. Depression. Alcoholism.

Sam knew he’d regret calling his brother — but  _ this _ … With his shoulders stiff and knees locked with age, he stood up from his chair in his office and paced. His footsteps thumped on the carpeted floor, and somewhere in the Bunker, Dean’s own steps thundered away in a nervous circle. With any luck, Cas would be asleep.

Perhaps he should’ve waited for Cas to recover before breaking Dean’s semi-functional lifestyle, or at least warned him what he’d find upon coming home. But the words had died on his lips as it was all he could manage to get Dean to Cas — fast. Shock, flashbacks, even rage episodes would’ve been preferable to this downward spiral of delusion and alcohol. At this rate, Dean would kill himself and take Cas with him, willing or not.

Sam paused, straining his ears. Dean had stopped pacing.

A quick glance at the clock taught him it was shy of four in the morning. Long days and gut-wrenching anxiety had kept him from restful sleep and his whole body thrummed with fatigue.  _ I need to talk to Dean. _ His brother’s awful words echoed deep in his mind… If they’d cut him, he could only guess how much they’d hurt Cas.

Imagine coming back to life for  _ this _ . No wonder Cas didn’t want to get better. Sam would’ve eaten a bullet rather than confront the bitter shadow of a man his brother had turned into. As he lied in bed, a soft groan escaping his lips, he stepped into his brother’s shoes and grimaced.  _ Yeah, I’m not sure which is worse. _

In less than a week, the rest of his team, the current American Chapter of the Men of Letters, would come back to the Bunker to continue their research. He’d explained as much as possible to Patience, who’d scrambled for an arrangement to keep their work in progress, and his reasons secret. He wasn’t sure how happy Jody was to have her house invaded by semi-scholars… They all knew about angels, and archangels, and everything the Bible had forgotten to mention, but he was reluctant to allow Cas to handle his young and enthusiastic group.

Heck, he wasn’t convinced  _ he _ was ready to deal with them and their questions any time soon.

_ Claire. _ Shit. He forgot to call her, and she’d rightfully skin him alive.

A migraine crept in the back of his right temple. And  _ Jack _ .

 

* * *

 

A thud interrupted Sam’s dozing, as he scrambled to a sitting position, his heart pounding on his ribs painfully. His knife was in his hand, blade pointed outward. His room was empty, the door shut, and for a moment he wasn‘t able to identify what had awoken him. Panting, he put down his weapon (he thought he’d kicked the habit  _ years  _ ago, but there he was again), and got out of bed. His clock showed it was just before six o’clock, which had given him a full miserable two hours of sleep.  _ I can’t do this anymore. _

He still had a headache.

Before his muddled thoughts sharpened, there was another bang from the war room. Uncertainty rising along with bile at the back of his throat, he opened the door to his bedroom to catch Dean’s incoherent rambling.  _ He’s  _ already _ drunk?! _ Realization settled heavily in his stomach.  _ He’s  _ still _ drunk. _

“ _ —er bargin’n’ere uninv’ted! _ ”

Alarmed, Sam’s cautious footsteps became a full trot just in time to witness a young man take a step toward his brother — who hadn’t slept a wink if his drawn face and rumpled clothes were anything to go by — before placing two long, elegant fingers on his temple. Dean’s blood-shot eyes rolled to the back of his head as he fell into a spectacular heap into Jack’s waiting arms. Sam hadn’t expected to see this first thing in the morning, but the event had been common enough years ago for him to easily keep the shock at bay.

“Thanks,” he croaked instead. He wanted coffee.

“How long’s he been like this?” Jack asked, his blue eyes wide with concern. The last time he’d looked this worried was they’d almost died in their last Apocalypse.

“A… while.” Sam sighed. “Put him on the couch. We need to talk.”

Lifting his brother bridal-style, as though he weighed nothing, Jack nodded. “I know. I heard your prayer yesterday.”

Sam blinked, not recalling praying — he must be more tired than he thought.

In the kitchen, Jack sat resting his elbows on the counter, nursing a cup of hot coffee and sugar. Even a decade later, he still studied Sam’s every movement with open admiration and respect, very much like the first time they got together to move a pencil with his mind. To this day, Jack hadn’t changed. His pale face was smooth, unblemished despite the beatings he’d endured, his hair a light bronze and as thick as ever. How he remained so  _ pure _ in spite of  _ everything _ was something Sam didn’t comprehend, and he treasured these moments alone with Jack when he had them — the boy was busy enough commanding Heaven on a day-to-day basis to visit at a whim.

“I-I didn’t realize I was praying,” Sam admitted after taking a sip of his own cup.

The caffeine rushed through his veins and his headache remitted. When had he become addicted to coffee?

“You’re worried, and Dean’s not fine.” Jack played with the cuffs of his old brown jacket, troubled. “Sam, what’s going on?”

Sam sat up straight. “You haven’t—I don’t know, noticed anything? Any strange burst of energy or a spell, or something?” Maybe whatever had brought Cas back had left behind a supernatural signature that Jack could identify…

“No.” Jack shook his head. “I heard you yesterday, and you seemed so preoccupied…”

“It’s—” Sam interrupted himself. Dean’s poor reaction to the news was off-putting enough, and he couldn’t tell what Jack’s response would be.  _ He needs to know.  _ “Jack, Cas is back.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrowed and then arched up in surprise. “Cas… as in  _ Castiel _ ?”

“The one and only.”

Jack opened his mouth but then shut it, which prompted Sam to retell the whole story. The evening he planned to go out, the lonely figure on the pavement, the painful road to recovery, Dean’s appalling reaction, the descent into self-destruction of everything and everyone involved… As he spoke, Jack’s eyes betrayed his emotions as clearly as any words. By the end, the elated smile had turned into a pinched expression of dismay.

“You didn’t feel Cas coming back?” Sam asked. He took the last sip of his third coffee, the bitter acidity gurgling uncomfortably in his stomach.

“No…” Jack bit his lip. “If he’s human, it makes sense that I wouldn’t feel him, though… But you’ve mentioned this entity, ‘The Empty’?”

“That’s what Cas called It.”

“I don’t understand why I didn’t notice It… move.” Jack looked as troubled as Sam felt about this news. If Jack, who was arguably the most powerful creature on Earth and the known Universe, hadn‘t noticed The Empty in action… The thought of It ever becoming a foe made his blood run cold. “And you say Castiel just woke up and was put here?”

“Apparently, he annoyed It so much he didn’t give It a choice.” Sam chuckled, the joy of hearing Cas’s sass back as fresh as when he’d first heard it.

Jack grinned, but his expression soon grew serious as he considered the implications. “And now he’s…”

“Human.” Sam set down his mug, unable to stomach anything anymore. “And sick. And as you can see, Dean’s not taking the news too well, either.”

“I sobered him up, earlier, and fixed the damage to his liver,” Jack said, shaking his head. “But if Castiel’s back, shouldn’t Dean be…  _ happy _ ?”

 

* * *

 

Sam checked on Dean, who snored on the couch. Jack’s angelic powers had certainly worked — instead of the ashen pallor of the past week, his cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. Jack’s healing skills weren’t as proficient as Cas’s back in the day… twenty years ago (when he’d fixed broken bones and stopped hemorrhaging with a touch), but stopping a hangover and fixing up a liver soaked in alcohol was still within his range.

After covering Dean with a handmade woolen throw Donna had knitted during their hospital stay, he turned toward the bedroom where he found Jack kneeling next to Cas’s bed. He was, to his relief, sleeping soundly, his breath stuttering here and there but without coughing himself awake. He’d take a win where he could find one.

“I’ve cleared his lungs from bacteria,” Jack explained, and Sam nodded. That made sense. “He should rest some more.”

Even with his back to him, Sam caught the longing in Jack’s voice.

They’d raised him as well as they could, despite the universe-shattering consequences of his birth, despite his lineage tying him to the Devil, despite Kelly’s wish Castiel would be there to guide him. All in all, Sam wanted to believe they’d managed okay — Jack single-handedly led Heaven without a glitch after surviving the literal end of the world. But Sam  _ knew. _

Back when he’d still been in his mother’s womb, Jack had reached out to Cas to defeat Dagon. His mother had  _ talked _ to him,  _ guided _ him toward Cas… only to lose him the day he was born.

“Yeah… Give him a few more hours.”

Jack rose, his eyes sad but determined. “I wish I could stay, Sam, but I’m going back to Heaven to find out what happened. When he wakes up—when he’s  _ okay _ , please let me know.”

Sam bit his lip and nodded. “Keep me updated.”

With a nod, Jack vanished with the sound of ruffled feathers.

 

* * *

 

True to Jack’s word, Castiel slept soundly and Dean woke up painfully sober later that evening. Sam watched his brother cringe at what had to be sore muscles from sleeping on the couch, but nothing compared to the pang of satisfaction in Dean’s face when he realized he wasn’t  _ drunk.  _ Dean didn‘t say anything as he sat up and scanned the coffee table for his bottles, and then he rushed toward the kitchen to find it empty of any alcohol.

“The  _ fuck _ ?!” he muttered. Sam waited in the living room, holding a thick book between his fingers he wasn’t reading. “ _ Sammy! _ Where the  _ fuck _ is my  _ booze _ ?!”

“Down the drain.”

“You didn’t.”

Sam faced him, keeping his expression neutral despite the unease building in his gut. “Enough is enough, Dean. I shouldn’t have enabled your bullshit this long in the first place, but you need to get sober  _ yesterday _ .”

“Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me around?!”

“You think I’m just gonna watch you kill yourself because—what? Your best friend came back to life and you can’t handle it?!”

“Fuck you!”

Sam ducked backward in time to avoid Dean’s fist, but stepped on the edge of the carpet and fell to the floor with a crash. The shock nearly blinded him as he hit his tailbone, sending while flashes of pain vibrating inside his bones. He swore. Dean muttered something and in a blink of an eye, he was again on his feet and Dean was pushing him back to sit on the couch.

“I keep forgetting you can’t handle beatings. This Men of Letters’ lifestyle has made you soft.”

Sam snorted, massaging his back with a wince. “I’m not thirty anymore, Dean. There’s a reason I retired.”

“ _ I  _ haven’t.”

Sam glared at him. “You’re running the Hunting Network from  _ home. _ How is that any different?”

Dean said nothing, and Sam accepted the conversation as the roundabout apology it was. For a few moments, they sat without speaking, and when Sam looked over, Dean was hunched on his knees, massaging his temples as though sporting a non-existent hangover. It wasn’t a pounding headache and nausea that plagued him; it was the resurrected ex-angel in bedridden in his old bedroom.

“I thought you would be happy.”

Dean let out a hiss. “ _ Happy _ ? Have you  _ met _ me?”

When they locked eyes, their green shone brighter than ever with unshed tears. Dean didn’t look like he was 48 years old anymore, but instead, the lines on his face grew deeper, his expression as haunted as the day he’d crawled his way back from Hell. Sam opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. All he saw was his brother, kneeling on the ground next to a dead angel in the middle of the mountains.

“Dean, he’s  _ back _ .” The words stumbled out awkwardly. “Cas is  _ back. _ It’s okay—everything, it’s finally okay.”

Dean entwined his fingers under his chin, his elbows balancing heavily on his knees. With his posture as stiff as a rod, he sat eerily still.

“He left, Sammy.”

“He’s  _ back. _ ”

“He  _ left _ .” Dean turned to him, eyes hard as steel, knuckles white. “He left  _ me _ .”

A spark flared inside Sam’s chest and he stood, broadening his shoulders to tower over his brother. His own fists were curled, fingernails digging painfully into the flesh of his palm, but at that moment he saw red. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinked hard to push back the tears, and gritted his teeth before exhaling slowly. He itched to return Dean’s punch.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Wha—?”

“Quit acting like a pitiful, self-involved teenager!” Sam lowered his voice to a growl because if he began shouting, he might lose it. “You think you’re the only one who  _ missed  _ Cas?! Who  _ mourned  _ him?! I was there when you lit the pyre, and I too prayed to Chuck to bring him back.” Dean stared, wide-eyed. “And for some reason, he’s back  _ now _ . Don’t you get it? Whatever happened in The Empty, for him it was  _ days _ , tops! He made it back and you’re treating him like a monster you want to gank but you can’t because you can’t get your head out of your ass!”

“Sammy…”

“No, Dean, this has been going on long enough. You wanted him back, and he  _ is _ back and now you’re just gonna kill him all over again, because of  _ this _ ? This certainly isn’t something to get back to from the dead. And if he dies  _ again _ , this time it  _ is _ on you.”

Dean’s face turned ashen, and any hint of satisfaction quickly morphed into shame and regret. Sam averted his eyes and spun to leave, just in time to see Cas standing in the entrance, his expression a mirror of Dean’s horror. Sam’s insides turned to ice, as any and all words blanked on him as he stared back in shock. The weight of what he’d said in anger crashed into him like an angry tide, but before he found any response to appease the situation, Dean banged his shoulder as he made for the exit. When Dean reached Cas, he hesitated, but kept going until he reached the door, taking painful care not to bump into him.

A metallic crash startled them, but before Sam could follow his brother the door to the garage slammed shut.  _ He’s sober, _ he reminded himself.

Cas had turned to stare at Dean’s footsteps, but when he shifted to face Sam, he found himself unable to meet the angel’s eyes. Shame had frozen every single particle in his body, and he wished he could trade his soul to turn back time.  _ Not happening. You locked Hell’s Gate, didn’t you? _

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The words echoed clumsily, but Sam swallowed the urge to apologize to him.

_ I’m right. Maybe not the way I said it, but I’m right. _

“I see,” Cas conceded. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door frame. “You were shouting, so I thought perhaps you needed help.”

Ah, so he had ended up raising his voice after all. “How are you feeling?”

Cas shot him a scrutinizing look, one Sam hadn’t experienced in over a decade, back when things were terrible but at least made sense. “Better. Tired, but better.”

“Jack.” Anything to drive the conversation away from his argument with Dean. “While you were sleeping he uh, he cleared your lungs. You’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

Cas inhaled sharply, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “ _ Jack _ ? Kelly’s son?”

“He wanted to talk to you—to meet you. But you needed the rest, and he wanted to investigate what you told me about The Empty.”

He realized then how silly they must’ve looked, both standing at opposing ends of the living room with their arms floating at their sides awkwardly. The urge to follow in Dean’s footsteps and run, hide, think about a plan to make things better with his brother so they could get back to normal burned in his gut… He’d given Dean shit at how he was treating Cas, but in a way, he was just as bad.

“He’s commanding Heaven. He’s great at it.”

Jack deserved a better introduction, but his brain wasn’t supplying him with the words he needed.

Cas’s eyes were wide, questions clearly burning in his mind, but the fact that he didn’t voice them meant their conversation about Dean wasn’t over — heck, it hadn’t even begun, really.

“Cas, what you heard…” Sam sighed, combing his hair with his fingers in hopes to control his expression. He sat in Dean’s vacated spot, and with a hand prompted Cas to take a seat next to him. When he did, Sam continued speaking. “I shouldn’t have said it how I said it, and I regret how it came out. But I don’t regret  _ saying  _ it. He’s been a jerk to you, acting as though this is all your fault when we know for a fact you had  _ no  _ control over when or how or where you ended up resurrecting.”

“Dean just needs time.” Even after all these years, after the idealized picture Sam had painted of Castiel in his head after his death, it still surprised him how forgiving the angel was when it came to the Winchesters. To Dean. “It’s not his fault.”

“It’s not  _ your _ fault, and it  _ is _ his responsibility how he reacts and his own actions.”

“It  _ is _ my fault — if I’d just stayed there…”

Sam glared. “Stayed  _ dead _ ? Look, I’d rather have you here ten years late, than not at all. And Dean might be emotionally constipated, but so does he.”

“Sam…”

Sam leaned forward, his hand gripping Cas’s shoulder tightly. “You’re one of us. And we missed you, and Dean sucks at talking about his feelings, but if he didn’t care this wouldn’t have hurt him as much as it did.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him at all.”

Nodding, Sam took a deep breath and lean back against the cushions. “He’s hurting himself more. Give him time, Cas. He missed you.” Suddenly there was a lump in his throat, and he had to look away. Tears pooled in his eyes and he blinked them away, pushing them back to the same place where the raw wave of grief had come from. “I’ve never seen him that way—how he was after you died. Gods, Cas, he…”

Cas said nothing.

“I thought he’d kill himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	6. Crash and Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Heavy angst. Self-hate. Depression. Suicide-idealization. Alcoholism.

Dean remembered a time when young waitresses would flirt back and he would get a shallow sense of self-worth. Now he was a sad old man almost brushing fifty, slumped over the bar counter and nursing a pitiful virgin rum and coke. He hadn’t shaved since arriving to the Bunker, and despite wearing clean clothes, they were rumpled with age. Instead of the (if he said so himself) dashing fella he’d once been, nowadays all that remained standing was a hunter with PTSD and an alcohol problem.

“Refill?” The young girl, probably a college student, on the other side of the counter grinned at him.

At least  _ someone _ had a sense of humor. “Make it a virgin.”

She chuckled and handed him another coke. “You here for the game?”

“Thanks, and nah,” he replied, eyeing the growing crowd around the flat screen in the corner. “Tried to learn the rules once, but it went over my head.”

“You must be the only man I‘ve ever met who doesn’t know the laws of  _ American Football _ ,” she drawled out the words in a parody of the South. The accent sounded good on her, and for a moment she reminded him of a younger Jo Harvelle before she’d been mauled by Hellhounds. The older one who’d made it back from the Apocalypse world still hunted somewhere up in Maine. “Wanna share why your poison is processed sugar and not a hard-core liquor?” she asked, leaning on her elbows. “They’re both equally deadly, they say.”

Dean snorted. “Ain’t that the truth. I’m one-day sober.” _ More like three-hours, but who’s counting? _ The girl nodded, her brown eyes softened as she took his confession on a stride.

“Heartbreak?”

The sweet and brisk kick of the coke soured in his mouth as he swallowed, grimacing when the bubbles hit his throat. The way she phrased her questions — precise to the point of freakishness — reminded him of Doctor Fields and the fact he hadn’t called her since he’d come to Lebanon.  _ Heartbreak. _ Yeah, right.  _ Try a resurrection that’s ten years late. Even Christ had more tact than that. _

Fortunately, the girl didn’t push. “Holler if you need anything else.” Instead of the flippant tone she’d displayed at the beginning, now she spoke almost in a whisper. As though he was fragile. As though  _ he _ , Dean Winchester, was  _ fragile. _ He wanted to down the whole store but resigned himself by running his fingers through his scalp, pulling at his hair. Maybe he  _ should _ phone his doctor.

Sure, she’d go all silent in disapproval as he’d confess to drinking his body mass in alcohol, but she understood the concept of angels and resurrections.

Hell, she even knew about Cas.

_ Stop. _ Thinking about Cas made him want to drink to oblivion, and Sam had put his foot down. It hurt Cas.  _ Fuck. _ He couldn’t believe he’d said to him he should’ve stayed dead…  _ Don’t. _ If Jack had to step back down to Earth to clean his liver  _ again _ , not only would Sam kill him — he was still protective of the semi-kid semi-God — but Dean would shoot himself in the head. Jack deserved better. Heck. Sam  _ and _ Cas deserved better.

_ So much for being functional. _

If booze was off the table, he needed to hunt. Decapitate a vampire, burn the bones of a ghost, feed a silver bullet to a rogue werewolf. On his way down to the Bunker, he’d made the wise decision of calling Claire ( _ Dammit… Claire _ ) for her to take over leading the Hunting Network in his absence, and he could always call in to check if she‘d found anything nearby. But if he called Claire, they wouldn’t end up talking about cases.

He slapped the cash on the counter and walked outside — the parking lot had been empty when he’d arrived, and was now full with ancient, ratty trucks that belonged to the  _ real _ functioning men who actually  _ understood _ ‘American football.’ The sky, gray with high clouds that promised storms, had darkened and he almost felt the atmosphere building up the tension for thunder and lightning. So it  _ was _ true what they said about old age and aching bones.

Before he could regret it, Dean dialed Claire’s phone number and breathed in with trepidation when she picked up on the first ring.

“S’up?”

“That was fast,” he answered, leaning against the door of the Impala. He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace.

“I was texting,” Claire replied. “Donna keeps feeding me gossip. Alex’s new boyfriend works in AI or something… I don’t suppose you called me for that, so what’s up?”

Dean opened his mouth, but the words got stuck in the back of his throat. If he summoned her to the Bunker — no questions asked — he’d be doing the same as Sam had, and though Claire was better than him, he didn’t want her to lash out. “I gotta tell you something, kiddo.”

He hadn’t called her that in ages, as she’d stop being a child before hitting puberty. Unlike himself or Sam, Claire hadn’t been raised in the world… She’d been tossed in it, and somehow survived. If the silence on the line was anything to go by, she understood that the real  _ stuff _ hid behind what he  _ wasn’t _ saying.

“I’m sitting down.”

Dean huffed. “Smart.”

“Spill it, old man.”

He imagined her relaxing on her faded leather sofa, feet up the coffee table. “Is Sandra with you?” Her wife was probably still at work, judging by hour. Sandra Novak, an ER surgeon, usually worked as many graveyard shifts as she possible could — Sandra had once joked it was because victims of the Supernatural frequently came in late at night, and she didn’t trust naïve doctors to deal with werewolf bites or vampiric transformations.

“She’s on her way home—Dammit, Dean, stop changing the subject. Did someone die?”

Dean chuckled, the irony making his eyes sting. “No.”

“I swear if you don’t spill—”

“—Cas is back.”

 

* * *

 

Dean parked his Baby in her spot, and with a sigh leaned forward into his arms, over the steering wheel. Exhaustion vibrated deep in his bones, pricking him with a poisonous ache. Or lack, thereof. His entire skin thrummed with the need for a stiff drink. Going cold turkey might kill him…  _ But that’s not the worst outcome, now is it? _

Temples throbbing and fingers twitching with addiction, he got off the car and entered the Bunker, grateful for the rooms bathed in darkness and the silence of the night. He’d left the bar immediately after updating Claire on everything he knew — jack squat on top of a big pile of nada — and driven around the neighboring towns to process their conversation.

Claire’s reaction dampened any darker thoughts he’d entertain any other given day, and relief tugged at his gut that she hadn’t lost her shit (yet). Her questions were precise, and she didn’t press — as he had — on the enigmas without answers. The shock either wore off quickly or she deserved the title of the queen of “Hiding Her Emotions” because damn, she’d been as cool as a cucumber. Of course, having your dad taken away from you by an angel and your mother murdered by a djinn would do weird stuff to anyone’s emotional state.

She promised to hand over the reigns of the network to Donna, and she’d be there first thing in the morning.

Dean glanced around at the Bunker’s living room from his slumped position on Sam’s armchair. Every flat surface was littered in papers and scribbles (was Sam looking into “The Empty?”) and a few dirty plates here and there. Damn. Sam wasn’t the handiest in the kitchen, but he was organized and clean.

Except when he was stressed.  _ I’m a fucking asshole. _

Least Dean could do was help out… But he’d lost it, hadn’t he?

A tingling feeling that had nothing to do with booze crept up his arms, up to his elbows, climbing until it reached his face and toes. His heartbeat, quick with stress, pounded against his ribs and a sheen of cold sweat cooled his skin. With trembling fingers, Dean rubbed his forehead, willing the panic away. Nausea sloshed in his stomach and burned in the back of his throat, but he kept it at bay with deep breaths. He smelled the stink of cigarettes from the bar on his clothes.

_ Damn. _ He hadn’t had a panic attack since leaving the Bunker.

Slow footsteps approached him. He recognized that rhythm, the steady thumps — he’d never tell him, but he’d always approved of Crowley’s old nickname for him. Without a word, Sam sat on the sofa, kicking his feet up with a tired sigh.

Dean didn’t expect an apology, so he spoke first. “Claire’s coming tomorrow morning.”

Sam perked up, lips curving in a smile. “Glad you called her, I’ve been putting it off.”

“Still scared of her?”

“Hah… Man, you never saw her face when she killed that wendigo back in Phoenix.” Sam always brought that up. “She looked happier than when Sandra proposed, I swear.”

Dean chuckled, the last remaining threads of tension melting away, the panic dissolving into familiarity. “She took it fairly well—better than I did.” He ignored Sam’s bitch-face. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“No, Dean. You don’t owe  _ me _ anything.” Sam turned his head toward the corridor. “I know you, I remember what happened and what you’ve been through. We’re fine. But Cas” —Dean winced— “isn’t.”

“Sam, I dunno how to talk to him.”

“He’s the same.” Sam shrugged. “Confused, disorientated, and I’m not gonna lie; he’s hurt. But he’s strong and he’ll always forgive you.”

“Why do you say that?” Dean buried his face in his hands, surrendering to the pressure in his sinuses. Any other occasion and he would’ve been out the door before Sam had finished speaking, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He was tired. Scratch that. Exhausted. And the more he ran the other way, the deeper he’d sink when he inevitably got back to the Bunker and by defect, a very human Castiel.

It was time to crash, then burn.

And then pull himself together.

“Because you two went through some serious shit together. Hell? The first  _ and _ second Apocalypse? Purgatory? Then the Angel Fall, and the Lucifer, and the Darkness, the Apocalypse World…”

Dean glared at him, but Sam just rolled his eyes as he used to when they’d resumed hunting, back when lowly demons and Lucifer’s name where the Big Bad Wolves. He was so accustomed to Sam’s graying hair and sharp crows-feet, that it was endearing to see that, despite it all, he was still his little brother Sammy. Revisiting those old memories stirred something inside him he wasn’t ready to face, not alone, but he might as well acknowledge that having Sam on his side was a blessing and not a curse. 

“I changed,” he growled. His hands shook, so he pressed them to his thigh. “I’m not the same guy. For all we know, he’s already disgusted with me.”

Sam sighed. Ah, there it was, the exasperation of a man used to stupid questions from stupid pupils. “Nah. You’re good.”

Dean huffed. “I’m  _ good _ ? Thank you, Doctor Phil, but I ain’t good at anything.”

“Dean, you’re such an ass.” Dean glowered at him, but Sam didn’t blink. He leaned back on the sofa, his head falling on the padded cushions. The nostalgic youthfulness of a minute ago was replaced by the sternness of a man who’d heard it all — and knowing Sam, he probably had. “I saw what losing him did to you, Dean. Don’t fuck things up. Not this time.”

“Sammy—”

“Cas deserves better.  _ You _ deserve better.”

 

 

* * *

 

When Cas shuffled his way into the kitchen later that morning, Dean planted his feet on the floor to keep himself put. If anything, Cas’s wide stare, jaw slack with surprise, kept him in place. Face burning, he recalled his younger self, standing in this very spot, with the same coffee cup in hands, staring at that spot near the door that had remained empty despite his prayers. Sam was right.  _ He’s back. He’s staying. _

_ I can’t fuck this up. _

Cas stood there, saying nothing, immobile, lips turned downward as though expecting Dean to bolt.  _ I’ve  _ already  _ fucked this up. _

Mouth dry, he cleared his throat which seemed to break the spell they’d fallen under. Cas looked away, took a step back as if to give him ample leeway to escape. He wore Dean’s old pajamas, a navy set of pants and a lighter, non-descript sweater. He slept on Dean’s bed in his old bedroom. He’d begged Sam for him at his worst; still searched his face for acceptance despite  _ Dean’s _ worst.

“Coffee?” he managed, handing Cas his own cup without thinking.

Cas shifted, eyes darting to the side before his lips curled in a small smile. He’d forgotten how dorky Cas looked sometimes. With steady hands, he took the mug and sipped the lukewarm coffee, but said nothing of the temperature or the taste. Dean had taken to adding a dash of milk to avoid heartburn.

“Thank you.”

“I can make you a fresh one if you want.” Dean couldn’t stop the words despite cringing at how lame they sounded. “Black, no sugar, like always. How ‘bout some pancakes, or an omelet? You haven’t been eating properly.”

At the silence, Dean turned to look at Cas, heart jack-hammering in his chest and a light sheen of cold sweat coating the palms of his hands.  _ It’s not a panic attack. _ He couldn’t tell what it was, either, so he just took another painful swallow. Cas’s blue eyes (had they always been  _ that _ blue?) were wide open, his head cocked to the side in bemusement. Gods, it hurt.

“I can make a mean plate of bacon, but Sammy’ll murder me if I feed you a truckload of cholesterol… How ‘bout some PB&J?”

_ I’ve fucked up too badly. _ The jittering nervousness in his stomach suddenly rolled with alarm and fear.

Before he was able to take a step back and rethink his position not to run away this time, Cas’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. “I’d like that.”

And fuck, but he’d missed the way Cas looked at him — as though he was worth listening to, deserving of his attention. Despite the bags under his eyes, perhaps the reluctance to believe Dean wasn’t about to toss him in the street, a child-like wonder he hadn’t seen in  _ over  _ a decade, sparkled.  _ Back when we were still getting to know each other. _

That’s what they needed again, anyway.

Dean had to remember Cas as he’d been before—that. And Cas get to know him,  _ this _ Dean Winchester, the retired hunter, the homeowner at a small town called Edenwood, the man who’d barely made it five years ago.

Cas had returned from the dead — again — so Dean owed him a chance.

His fingers shook, and the balance between the peanut butter and the jelly was dubious at best, but Cas smiled crookedly when he took the plate. He grinned at Dean’s attentiveness, which he only noticed when he realized he’d been staring.

“It’s very good,” Cas said after a bite. They sat at opposing sides of the kitchen island, Cas’s coffee already cold and half-empty, and Dean with a glass of stale orange juice (and wouldn’t Sam be proud of him). Before he could brush the compliment away, a sudden thought made his blood freeze as he watched Cas take another bite.  _ What if it’s a dream. None of this is real. Maybe this is Hell and he’ll just die in front of me again. And again.  _ “Thank you.”

But the nightmares always involved the messed up times he hadn’t been able to save the angel, not stupid domestic moments having breakfast. His cravings for alcohol ignited in his veins, hotter yet colder than ever. He downed the rest of the orange juice, which tasted like ash and he forced himself not to gag.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” The words shot out before he could stop them. Glaring at a random spot near the fridge, he only saw Cas shift from the corner of his eye. “Ten years, man. I was sure you weren’t coming back this time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—” He took a deep breath. “Don’t. I was a mess ten years ago, but  _ now _ ? I’m at a whole new level of rock bottom. I can’t—fuck. I can’t… I don’t know how to…”

“ _ You _ don’t know?” Cas repeated in a low tone, and for once his voice reverberated clear and pissed. “Dean, for me it was less than a month and suddenly it’s been  _ ten years _ !” Dean breathed in sharply as Cas stood and circled the counter, stopping only a few feet away from him. He kept his eyes closed. He smelled nice. “You’ve been having ‘trouble wrapping your head’ around this, but so have I. And Dean, you said—back in the barn. You said we were family.”

_ (“You’re family. And we don’t leave family behind.”) _

His gut twisted as though the old lance was now embedded in his own stomach, instead of the ghost of a memory.  _ I need to get outta here. _ But a quick glance at Cas taught him he was out of opportunities—this was his last chance to make things right with him. His mouth pooled with saliva as bile threatened to overcome him.

“We are.”

“You can’t even look at me.”

Shame dyed his vision red as he squared his shoulders and stood up, standing face to face with Cas. Up close, inches away from each other, the exhaustion, the confusion, the hurt radiated off Cas like a fever. He dug his heels in order not to cower backward because he had to make Cas understand.

He  _ had  _ to.

“Cas, you son of a bitch,” he spat, his voice trembling. Belatedly, he realized his whole body shook. “It  _ killed _ me, alright?! You died in front of my friggin’ eyes, and I had to watch it—I had to burn you in a pyre! You being here now just means I wasn’t able to save you back then and I’m certainly not able to save you now!”

“I don’t  _ need _ saving, Dean! I need  _ you _ !”

_ (“I need you.”) _

The room was silent other than their panting, for some reason the both of them out of breath. All and any other sounds drowned with them, elsewhere, veering in other directions away from their bubble. He couldn’t stop looking at Cas, at the disheveled head of black hair, the dark beard, the dry lips. The bluest eyes he’d seen in his lifetime, the pleading behind them — and he used to say Cas was inexpressive, unfeeling. How wrong he’d been.

How wrong he always was when it came to Castiel.

Cas had once bent time and space for Sam and Dean despite it almost killed him, Dean might as well forgive him for being a decade late.

“You’ve got me,” he whispered, closing his eyes and bathing in Cas’s presence. “You’ve got me, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	7. For Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Heavy angst. Self-hate. Depression.

 

“Castiel.”

Bewildered, Castiel ripped his eyes off Dean’s open lips, his whole body swinging as he turned to the voice behind him. His blood froze as his knees locked in position — holding himself upright with the kitchen’s door frame, he inhaled sharply upon recognizing the newcomer. Somehow his mouth caught up faster than his brain. “Claire.”

She stood in the hallway, a hand floating mid-air as though reaching out to touch him. Claire, too, had aged, but the years had treated her kindly. Her long, golden locks were braided over her shoulder, her round, pale face flushed a healthy pink. Gone were her trademark makeup and irritated grimaces, and instead her smile shone genuinely, as bright as he knew for a fact her soul was.  _ She’s happy. _ The knowledge hit him like a freight train, and he closed his eyes in a silent prayer to God.  _ Thank you. _

“Oh, Castiel…”

Before he could respond, she dashed the last few feet separating them, her sneakers squeaking on the floor as she enveloped him in a tight embrace. He breathed in the worn leather of her jacket as he returned the hug.

“I couldn’t believe Dean,” she said, stepping back and studying him. “Jesus, you look the same.”

“You seem well,” he replied, his lips tugging in a smile when she grinned.

“I am—I, there’s so much I want to tell you.” Claire sighed. Sam watched them from the studio, any pretense of not eavesdropping forgone. “Sam, how  _ dare _ you not call me?! I had to find out from  _ Dean _ of all people!?” Her voice, soft with wonder and awe, turned sharp when she addressed Sam, her tone closer to the one he remembered.

“Hey!” Dean complained behind him, but Castiel didn’t have to turn to know he was smiling.

Sam had told Castiel about Claire; how, like Dean, she shut down upon hearing of his death. Jumping head-first into cases, she’d only kept sane because of Jody first, and Sandra later. According to him, she had even fought with them in the front lines during the Third Apocalypse — equipped with a holy flamethrower of her own design, and an angel blade stacked on her boot. Now she was Dean’s right hand running the Hunting Network, covering for him in the rare cases he took, and mostly in charge of taking in the newer generations of hunters.

Claire still went out on her own. Though proficient in putting down any supernatural creature, she specialized in monsters who escaped through the cracks of different universes. When not on the road, she lived up in Denver, Colorado, in the middle of the continent for both convenience, and to support Sandra’s long-standing career as an ER surgeon.

Sam had assured him she was happy — but seeing her, strong, confident, sassy, gave Castiel a peace he hadn’t noticed he’d been starved for.

Dean ended up making a hearty breakfast for all of them: cheese omelet, bacon, pancakes with maple syrup, and beans on toast. They gathered around the counter, sitting on high stools, as Castiel explained yet again the little facts he had, and repeated the numerous questions they had. Whenever Claire interrupted him, her whole body leaned forward, frowning as she tried to decipher what no one else had been able to solve.

“—and that entity, The Empty, you say it looked like you.”

“Yes,” Castiel nodded, after taking a quick bite of his toast. “It said Its real form would make me ‘freak out,’ and ‘rip my eyes out.’”

Dean would put in a few words from time to time, reminding her to allow him to swallow, but Claire shooed him with her hand.

“Why  _ now _ ? Not when you… not when it happened?” she asked, despite Dean early reassurance that they’d already examined that question.

“I wish I knew.” That much was true. “I think it meant to frustrate me, to convince me that I wasn’t needed, or wanted.”

He kept his eyes trained on his own mug, the dark coffee reflecting the overhead kitchen light. Suddenly all he heard were the buzzing of the old fridge, the pings and clicks of the ancient pipes in the sink. Fabric ruffled when Dean shifted, cutlery clanged as Sam put his fork down.

Despite not having eaten much, his stomach ached. Shoulders stiff with tension, he recalled how Sam had rearranged the Bunker to host a large group of investigators for the supernatural; how he’d given him Dean’s room because his had been turned into someone else’s office. Dean had barely  _ looked _ at him until that very morning, his sole presence sent him into a pit of self-destruction. And Claire… Surely she’d been able to properly mourn her father, Jimmy, whom he once stole without thinking twice.

“—joke’s on him, or It, or whatever.”

Castiel did a take back when the words sank in. Dean, who’d spoken them, pushed his plate away looking as sick as Castiel felt.

There was a beat, but when Dean kept quiet, Sam just grinned and nodded. “He’s right, Cas. You’re both wanted and needed.”

But _ was _ he?

“Castiel, It never said anything about coming  _ here _ , right?” Claire pressed, eyes darting to all of them. “To start a new Apocalypse or something.”

He shook his head, pushing away the darker thoughts to pay attention to Claire. “No.”

“Because if It’s as old… older than  _ God _ , I don’t even want to  _ think _ about It coming here.”

“No,” Castiel insisted, turning and furrowing his brow as he tried to remember anything that might’ve hinted at his intentions. “It just wanted me out so It could sleep.”

Claire sighed, the pinched expression in her face melting into a pained grimace. “Good.”

 

 

* * *

 

“And you’ve never met Sam’s team? James, or Rachel, or even Mike?” Claire asked, humming in interest. “What about Patience?”

They sat at the living room’s sofa, Claire with her feet up despite Dean’s scolding. Castiel leaned backward, a steady pounding on his temples. Sam had suggested they both relax, probably more for Castiel’s benefit than hers, while Sam left to prepare the library for his group’s arrival, and Dean reviewed the current cases and the hunters Claire had assigned. He’d wanted to continue his conversation with him, but it was also a nice opportunity to catch up with Claire.

“Not yet,” he responded. He’d been so concerned with Dean’s attitude that thoughts of strangers coming to live in the Bunker hadn’t crossed his mind — until now, magnified by Sam’s grunts as he moved piles of books from one shelf to another.

As if sensing his discomfort, she bit her lip. “What are you gonna do? Are you staying with Sam or are you leaving with Dean?”

Castiel frowned — Sam had assured him he was welcome as long as he wanted, even join the Men of Letters, but hadn’t insisted. Dean… Dean didn’t live in the Bunker anymore. How long would he stay? When would he return? Perhaps he should leave, let them get on with their lives, find a job like the time he’d been human…

“Come with me,” Claire offered, her voice soft. She watched him, eyes unblinking, blue and intense. “Sandra won’t mind.”

She meant it, but Castiel made himself smile and shook his head. “You deserve to live in peace with her, Claire.” When she opened her mouth, he interrupted her. “But thank you.”

“Castiel—I.” Claire looked away. “I was mad at you, for  _ years _ . No, don’t. Don’t apologize.”

He breathed out, eyes closed. He deserved her anger.

“I get it now,” Claire whispered, and then her hands were on top of his. “What my dad did for me back then, when he said yes to you… I understand why he did it. He was protecting me, he did it to fight evil, to save the world and to protect mom and me—and my mother, she… She searched for him until it killed her. But I understand.”

She shook his hand until he looked up, and the fierce look of the hunter she’d become burned.

“I would jump into Hell headfirst if that saved Sandra,” she hissed. “And I would happily lock myself in Lucifer’s cage if that would keep her safe.”

“Claire…”

“What they did, it was for love, and both times it was  _ their  _ choice.” Her voice broke. “I didn’t get it at first, but now I do. So I don’t blame you for them, not anymore.”

At a loss of words, Castiel accepted Claire’s hug, feeling her shoulders shake as he wrapped her in his arms. His chest hurt, eyes burning as gratitude, and affection washed over him like a gush of fresh air. For once, the dread, the guilt he’d born over being back, dissolved into gratefulness.

Maybe The Empty  _ had  _ tried to show him how useless he was—but It’d been wrong. He hardly believed it, but it seemed to be true.

“Thank you, Claire.”

“Welcome home, Castiel.” She pulled away, brushing her eyelids with her fingers. “I’m glad I got to tell you this.”

“Tell him what?” A voice sounded from the other side of the room, and they both shifted to see Dean in the doorway with a crooked smile.

The clenching and unclenching his fists betrayed Dean’s nervousness, and he wouldn’t hold Castiel’s gaze for longer than a second. However, for once in over a week, Dean was finally walking  _ toward _ him, and not  _ away _ from him. Castiel didn’t blink, and he walked around them and sat with a groan on Sam’s armchair, his head down. But  _ there _ .

“None of your business,  _ abuelo _ ,” Claire replied, smirking. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, but the familiarity in which she spoke to Dean was comforting. “So, how d’you find the hunting logs?”

Dean’s whole posture shifted, his shoulders brimming with excitement as his eyes sparkled with pride. He’d always looked at Sam like that, and even Claire seemed to preen under his gaze. “You managed like a pro.” He smirked. “I expected no less from my star apprentice.”

“I’m your  _ only _ apprentice.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean cleared his throat. “Claire—I know you came all the way from Denver, but do you mind giving me and Cas a moment?”

Castiel, who’d listened with interest and fought the pull of exhaustion, sat up and, to his surprise, found that Dean actually looked  _ at _ him. The playful charade was gone — as well as the avoidance he’d dealt with from day one. If Claire noticed any of that she didn’t say and instead shrugged.

“Sure. I’ll give Sam a hand before he gives himself a hernia.”

Sam grumbled something in protest, but all Castiel saw was the amused smirk on Dean’s face, the softness of his gaze when Claire winked at them before she left the room. As soon as she turned her back, Dean’s whole posture tensed and the easy smile froze. Castiel’s stomach clenched; maybe that morning’s conversation had been a fluke after all…

“Cas, man…” Dean cleared his throat. “This uh, this morning. Are we—”

Castiel waited, but the last words never came. Instead, Dean buried his face in his hands, his facade breaking as the anguish seeped through the cracks. 

It took a long while and many pounding heartbeats. “Are we alright?”

Were they? Dean had gone from not meeting his eyes to staring at him unblinkingly, as though convinced he’d banish yet again if he lost track of him. A high flush peppered his neck up to his ears, and his lips were pulled as if stopping himself from screaming. Castiel remembered the hitches Dean’s breath whenever he got close and before he scurried away, far away; but he also recalled the gasp and the soft touches to his face when he’d been delirious. Dean Winchester, the man who’d broken the First Seal, the man who’d saved the world.

_ (“It was all about saving one human, right?”) _

It was always about Dean, and this time, too, he folded.

“Yes, Dean.”

“You’re home for good.”

He cocked his head to the side. “I’m not planning on dying any time soon if that’s what you mean.”

Behind the wrinkles, the beard, and the weary years, Dean’s eyes sparkled with the light Castiel recognized. And then he had an armful of Dean, two rough pats on his back by one hand while the other held his arm. The sour stench of alcohol was gone and replaced by a warm sandalwood, leather, and gunpowder. Castiel relaxed in the embrace, and only belatedly, when he was moving away, remembered to hug him back.

 

 

* * *

 

“What—No. No way.”

When Castiel entered the kitchen after his shower, he found Claire sitting on a stool and texting, her eyes glued to her phone, as though used to the argument happening around her. On one hand, Dean — who’d spoken — stood in front of the oven, holding a spatula as he flipped a hamburger without looking. Sam sat opposite Claire and with his back to Castiel.

“Why not?” Sam asked, irritation clear in his voice. “Seriously Dean, I think it’s better for him to stay here with us; he’ll be safer!”

Dean shot Castiel a glance, but his jaw set with resolve. “No, I’m not letting your guys probe him like a friggin’ guinea pig, Sammy! Don’t give me that look, you know they’ll poke at him the minute you turn away.”

Sam turned around and shook his head at Castiel, eyes wide in exasperation. “They’re not children, Dean, unlike you, they have  _ manners. _ ” Dean flinched. “If anyone can find out something about why he’s back, it’ll be them—us, together.”

Before Castiel could ask what was happening, Claire waved her hand at him and shrugged. “Sam wants you to stay here with the team, and Dean wants to take you with him. My offer is still standing.”

“Your offer?” Dean repeated, putting out the fire and throwing the spatula on the sink as though it offended him.

“I told him he‘s welcome with me and Sandra,” she replied. “And say what you will, Dean, this is Castiel’s decision, not yours.”

All eyes were on him. Castiel frowned, aware of the situation he was in, and that despite all of them having his best interests at heart, he had to choose. He took the seat next to Claire, and a quick glance told him she already knew his answer. And just like that, he recognized what it was.

“Dean,” he said, eyes glued to his shoes. Claire didn’t bother hiding her smile when she turned to her phone once again, and as soon as the word came out, Sam nodded with his eyes closed. Dean, however, stared at him with his jaw open and then grinned as his chest deflated in relief. “Sam—I’m sorry, I really appreciate…”

“Nah, man,” Sam interrupted. “Claire’s right, it’s your call. I don’t have the right to keep you here.”

“You wouldn’t be ‘keeping me here,’” Castiel insisted, frowning at the distasteful words. “But you’ve told me about your work here, as Men of Letters. You’re doing important research, Sam, and I cannot be the one to hinder you.”

“Plus,” Claire jumped in before Sam could protest. “You say you want to find out  _ why _ he’s back but… What if there’s  _ no _ particular reason?”

“The universe’s not big in free handouts or helping out the good guys,” Dean replied, and Sam huffed in agreement. “But we’ll take it one day at the time, and that ain’t gonna happen with Mike’s questionings, and he might mean well but you  _ know _ it’s coming. And Cas said it, he’s with me.”

The look Sam threw Dean was nothing short of wild, and Dean acknowledged whatever meaning hid behind it because he looked away, teeth clenched. However, despite the unsaid warning, Castiel didn’t change his mind. Sam had built up the Men of Letters from scratch — from setting up a cataloging system in the library to organizing the artifact room, arranging bedrooms and offices, decorating the Bunker so that it felt like home, like family. A family Sam put together, but Castiel wasn’t ready to enter when he knew so little. When he longed for…

Dean lived a secluded life, in a house in the outskirts of a town, playing the role as the Head of the Hunting Network with the ease of the destined. Sure, Castiel couldn’t hunt, was barely able to stand for long periods of time before exhaustion caught up with him, but Dean stood on the sidelines as well. His knowledge of the supernatural might help the Men of Letters, but would certainly be more useful to the hunters who fought with their lives.

_ (“I need you.”) _

_ (“I need you.”) _

“You’ll love Edenwood,” Claire said, breaking the tense silence. As if a spell had been broken, Dean turned and began to serve their dinner, and Sam moved his laptop away from the table. “It’s a small town, very provincial, and Dean’ll take care of you.”

“And you’ll take care of Dean,” Sam whispered, and Dean slammed the plate he held in front of Sam with a loud clang. He seemed angry, face flushed and mouth pulled downward, but Sam smiled, the small dimples in his cheeks making him look young and hopeful. “Yeah. You two’ll be fine.”

Castiel had gotten used to confusion, to having tidbits of information go over his head when memories refused to stick in his brain. But he’d recovered, and still, he lacked knowledge that everyone else in the room shared. It went further than unknown references to pop culture, to conversations when his mind had broken, to the history he’d missed in death. His nerves buzzed while comprehension hovered just out of reach.

Could he trust Dean, who’d turned his face whenever Castiel showed up? What if he changed his mind, as he was privy to doing, and this time Castiel found himself abandoned?  _ I’ll take it. _ Because if staying with Dean Winchester through the bad and the ugly meant he also got to the good, he’d jump headfirst.

_ (“It was all about saving one human, right?”) _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	8. Better Late than Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings:** Flashbacks. Depictions of injuries. Giving up in the face of death. Mentions of minor OCs.

Sam, leaning against the doorframe, hummed as he watched Dean throw his old clothes in a duffel bag while Cas waited on the chair, bewildered. Dean kept muttering things under his breath — what exactly neither of them could hear, but Sam knew his brother and he’d give a kidney if that wasn’t nervous excitement turning him borderline manic. In Cas’s defense, he’d tried to help Dean at first, but he still looked a bit pale and Dean now insisted on keeping him resting. Sam hadn’t even attempted to offer his services, he’d be more of a nuisance than anything.

Despite literally having known Dean all his life, the ups and downs, the crashing and burning, even he’d been taken back by the one-eighty in his brother’s attitude.

It was difficult to believe he’d slammed doors and drank his weight in hard liquor three days ago, hissing spiteful words in bitterness, diving head-first into the abyss of alcoholism and depression. It might have been Sam’s insistence that both he and Cas deserved better, or perhaps Jack’s powers that restored the clarity he’d lost, or maybe it finally sunk that Castiel was _back_ _with_ him, not _at_ him. Either way, Dean had stopped buying booze and could hold a normal conversation without threatening to break someone’s skull.

However, he still caught Dean’s glances at Castiel when the ex-angel wasn’t looking. He’d seen that timid expression before, but not for a decade. Perhaps he expected Castiel to vanish, but instead dropping dead, Castiel’s cheeks gained color and his health improved along with Dean’s mental state.

Sam had known forever, and it still amazed him to see how uniquely bonded they were.

Of  _ course  _ Dean ended up forgiving Cas, and vice versa.

And yet… Sam understood where Dean was coming from, even as he folded his socks and stuffed them on the side pocket of the bag.

He‘d refrained from telling Cas much about the aftershocks of his death — how could he? The Winchesters had gone through the wringer since the murder of their mother, literally through Hell. And still, he associated those first months of Cas’s loss with the absolute agony of his own years in the Cage. Not in the physical sense, but mentally and emotionally, it had taken everything he’d ever been to keep Dean together.

“... you here, man?”

Sam snapped out his thoughts. “What?”

“Dude, snap out of it.” Dean turned to Cas. “We’re leaving tomorrow at sunrise, anything else you need from the Bunker? Books or weapons?”

“I’m set,” Cas replied, nodding toward the handgun and angel blade on his bedside table.

Claire had spent the afternoon teaching Cas how to use the gun — from the basic maintenance to the actual firing — before hugging them all and returning to Denver with a promise to keep in touch.

“We have been uploading most of the books for the past years to the Cloud,” Sam explained, and when Cas blinked, he added. “Dean’ll teach you. It’s heavily encrypted, obviously, but now instead you can search with a keyword, and we have a team in Utah working on image recognition.”

“It’s like Google, but with all the crap from the Men of Letters,” Dean summed up. Sam glared at him. It had taken seven years, and a large squad of Men of Letters  _ and _ Hunters to transcribe everything.

“That’s impressive,” Cas noted with a smile.

“It saves a lot of research time,” Dean admitted. “So, you good?”

Sam kept himself from sighing — Dean meant well, and that his reluctance to allow Cas to meet his team was born out of concern, but it grated his nerves. His group and the Hunting Network worked together on a daily basis, and Dean had never shown an ounce of distrust when it concerned himself or his hunters.

Perhaps because he’d just been thinking about it, but he suddenly recalled a delirious Dean on his knees, staring glassily at the sky as he prayed to a God who’d long since abandoned them.

“You guys take it easy on the road,” he said before taking a step back. “Call when you get home.”

“Aw, you’re not sending us off?” Dean mocked, and Sam rolled his eyes, heart warm with the radiant happiness in his brother’s face.

“Don’t you dare wake me, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam scoffed as he nodded Dean and Cas goodbye, and went into his studio before turning in for the night.

Though he was finally getting his hours of sleep, Sam’s body ached with fatigue when he sat on his desk. He’d been so busy the last two (wait, almost  _ three _ ) weeks… And when they left the next morning, unfinished essays and a grumpy crew awaited him.

He turned on the computer and groaned at the bulk of emails downloading and the attached documents he’d have to review. Still, at his age, he preferred desk-work rather than crawling in the middle of the night to burn bones in a cemetery in the middle of nowhere.

Sam opened a random mail from Rachel and clicked on the link, a news article, before noticing he was only on CC, and that the actual recipient was Claire. It was a short, sensationalist piece on the burglary of a small convenience store in Virginia, where the robbers played a prank on the owner by taking all their salt. Claire replied with a clip of some actress rolling her eyes.

He’d grown comfortable with his routine over the last five years; the research, the discussions in the war room, the trips to secluded libraries and biddings for antique and obscure spell books. Even the actual writing was fun, and sure, collecting sources was a pain on a lazy day, but whenever he uploaded a new file to their Cloud, the sense of accomplishment felt nothing short of beheading a vamp. Reading through the others’ articles, too, taking his time to contrast their information, was fulfilling, as though his itch for the academics he’d longed for in his youth was finally being scratched.

He wouldn’t trade the last weeks for anything in the world.

Dean had almost snapped, hovering on the edge of insanity, but once he’d accepted Cas’s return… Dean hadn‘t been so happy in  over an actual decade. Not even when they’d shut the gates of Hell  _ and _ Heaven, had he been that pleased with himself.

He chuckled as he turned off the computer and lied on the bed. These past weeks were an emotional rollercoaster, but he would miss Dean and Cas.

Heck, they were still in the Bunker, and he already missed them.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Sam stood in the middle of the circle, feet planted firmly, shoulders tense, as the wind died down around him. He prayed to Chuck who long abandoned them — that the Gates were closed once and forever, that Jack and Jesse survived the madness, that Dean hadn’t let go. As the gray dust began to settle on a layer of dirt, his knees gave away and everything blurred as he hit the ground. _

_ He might’ve lost time, because while the world ended, ironically the sun shone, and now dusk set in. His whole body shook with tremors — maybe due to the cold, possibly the blood loss and shock. For all he knew, he was dying. For probably the last time in his existence, he closed his eyes and welcomed his Reaper. _

_ Except… he felt strangely alone, isolated. Curiosity beat the bone-crushing exhaustion, and he opened the eye that hadn’t swollen shut, but Stull Cemetery remained deserted. Surely Jack hadn’t locked in the Reapers, they were still needed. A shudder dug rogue stones into his sore stomach. Cold crawled alarmingly in his veins as the blood poured out, slowly shutting down his organs and taking with it his consciousness. If Jack took over Heaven, perhaps he would be allowed peace. _

_ He deserved it… didn’t he? _

Where’s Dean? _ He was in a bad way. Nachash had racked his claws over Dean’s face, and he’d been lying broken on the ground when Sam shoved himself in the Impala and driven to the Gateway to Hell. He hadn’t had a choice, and now he regretted not being able to see his brother one more time.  _ He’s probably dead. _ A pang of regret shocked his frame, or perhaps he was choking on his own blood. _

_ At least Nachash was dead, they’d managed that much. And with the Origin of Evil blasted into oblivion, he could finally hang his coat and retire. Die. Finally. _

 

* * *

 

Sam gasped awake, heart slamming into his ribcage, his body covered in a layer of cold sweat. He coughed, his throat dry with fear, the echoes pounding against his brain like a hammer. With a sigh, he rolled over, grimacing at the damp sheets, as he got his breathing under control and organized his thoughts.

He hadn’t dreamt about Nachash and the cemetery in  _ years _ . And still, his skin crawled, uncovering the feelings he’d shoved away that night. He’d pretended to embrace death, but deep down the fear almost did him in. Alex had been the one to find him, bruised and bleeding from every orifice, a gaping hole in his abdomen.

Miraculously, Jack’s grace in a flask kept him alive long enough to land him to the hospital, and then it remained touch and go for a fortnight. Dean, who took the brunt of the battle, lingered in a coma by the time Sam regained his ability to walk.

Perhaps because Dean had never really recovered, not really, until three days ago. Castiel hadn’t lived through that Apocalypse, nor fought the Serpent. Maybe it was a small mercy — but now finally Dean would begin to heal.

Ten years late, but better than never.

He took a deep breath and got out of bed, taking with him the sheets in a pile, and headed to the kitchen. Only when he saw the coffee machine on and a plate of food wrapped in foil, did he remember that they’d left to Edenwood. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and, after loading the washing machine, served himself a cup of coffee and stared at his food.

He easily admitted to himself that the five years after Castiel’s death became the anti-climax, in the lowest of the low points. Without the angel, they’d been blind, shocked at how much they relied on him for everything — cases, knowledge, moral support. They made it through the ‘Epic Battles’ and defeated the ‘Bid Bad Wolves’ as they came because they  _ had _ to. But when it was finally  _ over _ …

Survivor’s Guilt, doctor Fields called it. PTSD. Shellshock.

The second this whole plane of existence wasn’t in jeopardy, the moment that responsibility was lifted off Dean’s shoulders… He’d given up. The hospital fought his battles to keep him alive, and doctor Fields took over with intense therapy sessions. But he’d always known the catalyst, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Cas‘s return was really a miracle.

Perhaps he shouldn‘t blame Dean for how poorly he’d reacted. Had Cas been fake, had his resurrection been a fluke — Dean would not survive that kind of loss a second time.

Still staring at the cold breakfast and now lukewarm coffee, there was a rattling somewhere in the Bunker as the lock turned. Some shuffling snapped him out of his reverie as he wondered what Dean might’ve forgotten to drive all the way back. “Dean?” he called.

“No!” A feminine voice rang across the room, young and crisp.

“Hey, Patience,” he greeted as she shuffled into the kitchen, drowning in a maroon pea coat a size too big. She wore a woolen bonnet, scarf, and gloves, and carried with her a small suitcase and a leather briefcase. Her glasses fogged up at the warm temperature inside. “It’s so cold!”

“It’s almost December,” Sam replied with a smile. He downed his coffee and served Patience and himself a fresh cup. She accepted it with a grin.

“It’s almost  _ Thanksgiving _ !” she retorted, rolling her eyes. “It’s like you guys don’t care, I swear. Claire said she’d be in Utah for a case, and Donna says she won’t cook another turkey until Jody admits she’s the better chef — and that’s never gonna happen! And don’t get me started on James...” She sipped her coffee, fished a fork from the counter, and took a bite from the cold eggwhite omelet. She made a face slammed the fish back into the microwave. “Did you  _ just _ wake up?”

Sam didn’t answer.

“So, where are Dean and Castiel?” she asked, looking around the empty kitchen. Without her hat on, her hair fell in waves over her shoulder and down her back.

“They left this morning,” he said, nodding his thanks when she handed him the hot plate.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s name flashed on his cell phone the moment the Bunker’s door opened for the third time. Sam didn’t bother finding out who’d arrived — they’d all end up gathering in the library sooner or later — but instead took the call as he leaned comfortably down his armchair, an old book precariously balanced on his knees. “You there already?” he asked, catching sight of Patience rushing to help their newcomer.

“Hey man,” Dean replied. The lack of the Impala’s roaring meant they’d arrived safely home. “Tried to wake you this mornin’, but you slept like a log.”

Sam scoffed. “Whatever. You two made it in one piece?”

“Yeah.” There was a muffled noise as Dean turned to say something, presumably, to Cas. “All my food’s rotten, and I just noticed I’ve been carrying a bookshelf around for  _ weeks _ . We had to take a couple breaks on the way.”

“Is he doing okay?” Sam sat up, alarmed, but Dean sighed.

“Yeah, but apparently he gets carsick.” Sam could almost  _ hear  _ Dean’s eyes rolling. “Sammy, there’s something that kinda happened when we got here and I wanted to run it by you.”

“Sure.”

“Remember that orb we found in the Bunker, the ‘angel-detector’?”

Sam frowned, recalling the glass sphere that hidden in a dusty crate in a forgotten room in the Bunker, buried under other artifacts only half of which they understood today. Actually, Jack had been the one to find it while he’d searched for something else, as the fist-sized sphere shone a bright orange when he’d opened the box. Sam had recognized that light — it was the same shade as Jack’s grace, and when he touched it, it almost blinded them.

By sheer coincidence, they discovered it reflected ‘angel mojo,’ lighting up upon their presence with the color of their power. It proved vital to their fight against Lucifer, and later Michael, and their final battle against Hell and Heaven.

Dean mentioned once leaving it on the glove compartment, a place he’d remember, and it had been useful to recognize the wayward fallen angels who hadn’t made it back to Heaven. They were few and in between, and were smarter than to cause trouble when Hunters were still on the lookout, but Jack was convinced a handful remained on Earth. As far as he knew, however, they hadn’t used it since, and Dean had certainly not spoken of it in years.

“Yeah…”

“It’s glowing.”

Sam did a double take as the book slipped from his legs and crashed on the floor. Did Cas still have his mojo, was he not human after all? He opened his mouth to ask, but Dean interrupted his train of thought.

“It’s not Cas, I tested him.” How, he failed to mention. “We’ve been in the car for  _ hours _ , and it only started to glow when we got here. You didn’t hear of any leads or a new case, have ya?”

“Patience didn’t say anything—did you call Claire?”

“Cas in on the phone with her, but… yeah, nothing.”

An angel… in  _ Edenwood _ ? Sure, Dean was still a target for supernatural entities even after moving there, hence the heavy-duty protection and amulets that only rivaled the Bunker’s. But he knew what Dean wanted to hint at, as the timing with Cas’s presence was too precise to be a fluke.

“How bright is it?”

“Enough for Cas to notice it shine on the glove compartment.” A grumble. “Yeah, Claire says nada. I dunno, man, this feels like too much of a coincidence.”

Sam swallowed. “Yeah... I promised to keep in touch, so I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

When Dean hung up, Sam got to his feet and rushed to his bedroom. He passed James on the way but didn’t bother with a greeting. They‘d catch up later. He had other priorities… He locked the door and sat on the bed — they didn’t have to get on their knees not really. With a deep intake of breath, he counted to ten, and rid his mind of the anxiety crawling up his skin, the tremor in Dean’s voice, the shadow of a threat which would break their sliver of happiness.

Exhale.

Praying to Jack didn’t work like with other angels — an open, concentrated thought wouldn’t even register on his radar. Sam focused his entire being into a mental message, his whole existence into words for Jack to understand he was being summoned. Dean’s unease would be an impediment. Plus, for obvious reasons, Dean stopped praying altogether and instead Sam took charge when the need presented itself.

Jack rarely dropped down to Earth, the energy he required to step from one plane to another usually left him drained, and they needed him in Heaven more. It had only been four days since his last visit, but…

_ Jack. _

If an angel found Cas, there was no telling how it would react, whether it would call its brethren. Despite being ten years dead, there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t want revenge for old mistakes… Dean could deal with them, but they needed to know if they were going to become a problem again.

But how had they  _ known _ ?

_ Jack. _

A flutter of wings broke the silence and Sam turned just in time to catch Jack before he nosedived on the ground. Worry weighed like lead on his stomach — surely another trip in such a short period would hurt him — but Jack quickly got to his feet. His face paled a few shades when he stood fully vertical.

“Jack, I’m so sorry we had to call you again…”

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Jack insisted, blinking as though having trouble focusing. “It’s just been a while—Sam, what is it?” His concern was heartwarming. “Is it Castiel? Where is he?”

Guilt burned Sam’s cheeks, but there was no way the two could’ve met. Dean had been adamant to take him away, and if Jack could barely stand after four days, any sooner...  _ Another time, _ he promised himself. “He’s with Dean, in Edenwood.” A beat. “And we think there might be an angel there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find updates and sneak-peeks of future chapters on my Tumblr account (koshisekisen)!


	9. An Easy Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon-typical violence. Mentions of drinking as an alcoholic. 
> 
> Apologies for the late update! Hopefully, I’ll be able to get back to my biweekly updates from now on! Remember to follow me on tumblr for sneak peeks, if you’re interested (koshisekisen).  
> Also, I have an announcement at the end of the chapter!

While Cas slept in the guest room, Dean splashed his face with cold water, biting back a curse at the shock. Well, it woke him up alright. It was a miracle the pipes hadn’t frozen, and the house remained cold despite the heater cranked up to full blast. With a frustrated sigh, he shuffled downstairs to the kitchen, turned on the coffee machine, and while he toasted the freshly defrosted loaves of bread, he rummaged in the cupboards for the jar of homemade raspberry marmalade a neighbor had given him a month ago. He needed to hit the supermarket, yet the still glowing orb on the living room table was a more pressing issue than fresh groceries. 

Just as he readied the toast, footsteps shuffled behind him. 

“Mornin’ sunshine.” The words came out stilted, too cheerful to sound natural, as Castiel’s frowning face proved. He cleared his throat. “Breakfast might be a bit dull, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

They sat at the small kitchen counter, each munching on dry toast and sweet marmalade, stopping just to sip cheap acidic coffee. Sam always bought the good stuff, and now that Dean had gotten used to it again, he figured he needed to upgrade his selection. If Cas thought anything about it, he didn’t say. 

He’d underestimated Sam — how easily he communicated with the angel, how comfortable he made every room anyone ever entered with his nerdy presence, how others warmed up to him almost as a reflex. Dean had also overestimated his own ability to  _ fix _ things. Just because he’d managed to speak full sentences to Cas didn’t mean he could exist in the same space as him without his skin crawling, his chest reverberating with anxiety. He gulped down the rest of the coffee trying  _ not  _ to think about it  _ not _ being alcohol. Sam had thrown away all the booze in the Bunker, but his own stash remained untouched in the fridge and lining the shelves. He hoped Cas would throw it for him, but feared his own reaction if he hit a low point. 

He needed to call Dr. Fields. 

After grocery shopping. 

And after cruising the town with the orb in hand. 

Dean had tried to stay awake at night, not trusting the presence of an angel in Edenwood. He’d been plagued with horrible visions of a suited sonofabitch wearing the face of a friendly shopkeeper, breaking into his house and stabbing Cas in the chest. Sigils kept angels out, of course, but this was perhaps the most vulnerable Cas had been since Sam had found him. 

The house was the safest place other than the Bunker itself, and as long as they remained indoors, they would be fine but… 

The  _ look _ on Cas’s face on the road…! 

Dean had gotten used to his pasty complexion, the dark bags, the sunken eyes, yet the moment Cas had stepped outside he’d become invigorated. His cheeks turned rosy from pleasure, not fever; his complacent smile a wholehearted grin at the sun shining down on him. With a jolt, Dean also recalled a phantom caress deep in his gut, hot and fluttery. Obviously, he’d thought about  _ it  _ — about  _ them  _ — about  _ Cas _ . The longing to step forward, to touch, to…

_ I can’t do this to him _ . Dean had already broken the angel once in the course of two weeks, and a thousand times in the years after their first meeting.  _ He deserves better. He always did. _

He caught Cas studying the warding decorating the window frame. It was a light gray in contrast to the pearly white of the rest of the house, but of course he’d noticed. 

“How you feelin’?”

Dean would’ve never guessed that Cas, of all people, got carsick, but how could he? He’d pretty much abandoned him the first time Cas turned human. 

“Rested,” Castiel replied after a moment, eyes closed as he slowly drank the rest of his coffee. “Happy.”

Dean stared, his hand hovering mid-air as he reached out for a refill. He recognized it now, the domesticity, the simple and content life he’d always wanted and never dared to dream about. He and Donna had hunted a djinn three years ago and what he’d seen…  _ whom _ he’d seen… He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he wasn’t dull to the point of blindness, despite what Sam thought. Dean had known what it meant back then, what it meant ten years ago. 

What it meant today. 

_ Fuuck. _

“Cas, man, don’t say shit like that,” he muttered, pouring coffee against his mug so that it sloshed almost dangerously around the edge. “Refill?”

 

* * *

 

Dean took a right past the high school, shifting his eyes from the road to the rearview mirror, to the side mirror and, ultimately, to Cas. The fist-sized orb still glowed dully, flashing at an intermittent rate which meant the angel was on the move. 

For the hundredth time, Dean regretted not leaving Cas behind. 

He’d tried to convince him — blabbed on about being safer at home, needing the rest, that he wasn’t going to confront it, just scout around and buy some actual food. But Cas had thrown him a perfect imitation of Sam’s bitch face, threw on Dean’s old leather jacket, and slumped on the shotgun seat with a defiantly raised eyebrow. Claire’s handgun rested on the hidden inner pocket, and the sleeve bulged a bit with the weight of the blade. Despite his attitude, however, Cas wasn’t ready to fight, no matter what he said…

But Dean understood not wanting to be left behind. 

With a sigh, he parked his Baby at the supermarket. “Keep the sphere in the glove compartment,” he instructed Cas after slamming the door shut. “And keep a lookout. Remember, we’re not here to—”

“Dean Winchester!” 

They both turned to face a beaming Victor Richter, one of the town’s most beloved doctors. His tanned face was flushed from the cold, and a cotton beanie hid his dark curly hair. Dean nodded, the tension draining from his shoulders — Victor and his wife Janine, despite not knowing about the supernatural, were probably his closest friends in Edenwood. 

“You bastard,” Victor exclaimed, and Dean let out a bark of laughter. Cas took a step forward, fists curled and ready to attack, but remained still when Dean nodded at him to relax. “You dissed movie night and didn’t even send a text!” 

Dean winced. He actively limited his contact with the Richters to once a month, tops, in order to lessen their exposure to any blood-thirsty monster… He genuinely liked the couple despite their tendencies to introduce him their single friends. He’d forgotten about “movie night,” though fortunately, Dean had had to suddenly skip town often enough for them not to take it personally. 

“Sorry, man,” he said, shrugging. “I had to uh, there was a family emergency. Cas, this is Victor Richter, Edenwood’s top oncologist. Victor, this is Castiel; Cas, for short.”

Victor raised his eyebrows, eyes studying Cas with such eagerness even Dean shifted uncomfortably. Sure, Victor’s manners were topnotch, but he asked clever questions when Claire sent a stray his way to mentor. 

“Nice to meet you.” He stretched his hand and, after a quick glance at Dean, Cas shook back. “Welcome to Edenwood! Me ‘n Janine — that’s my wife — we like to hang out with Dean here from time to time and watch cowboy classics, and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Thanks,” Dean added after Cas’s clumsy nod. “We’re on our way for a grocery run, and then I’ll be showing Cas around.”  _ In search of angels, but wouldn’t you like to know. _

“Why don’t you two come over for dinner tonight?” Victor insisted. “I’ll take out the grill and we can make some juicy hamburgers. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Dean liked Victor, he really did, but his tendency to insist grated on his nerves when his priority was to take Cas home where he’d be safe, and not out in the open. Plus, despite Cas’s nerdy smile, his whole body language screamed awkwardness. After all, it had only been him and Sam for the last three weeks… Taking pity on him, Dean clasped his hand on Cas’s shoulder, startling him, and flashed Victor his best ‘I’m-so-sorry’ face. 

“Damn, we’d love to. But Cas and I have plans, some work came up last minute, you know how it is.” He didn’t, considering Dean had skillfully evaded all questions related to his supposed profession since their first meeting. For all Victor knew, Dean worked as a ‘freelance security consultant’, which had to be one of the most convenient and vague professions ever for hunters under the radar. 

Victor stared, understanding glazing his eyes. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ I see! Sure.”

Like ants crawling on his skin, Dean’s cheeks began to heat as Victor’s interpretation sank in, and he became aware of his hand resting on Cas’s shoulder blade, the utterly minimal space between them which was so  _ normal _ , yet so foreign to the outside world. He almost took a step back and readied his arms to shrug, a joke on his lips on the ready. And yet, Victor smiled at them with no judgment, just the tiniest bit of curiosity. He stayed put, refused to look away, and breathed in relief when Victor laughed as he excused himself. 

“I’ll take it as a raincheck, so don’t you bail on me next time! Nice to meet you, Cas.”

Another handshake, a wink on Dean’s direction, and he was gone. 

Dean licked his lips, keenly aware of the dryness in his mouth. Slowly, he took a step back and almost lost his balance as Cas took one forward. “Um. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Of course, Cas watched him. His head tilted to the side like a dork, eyes squinting as though reading in between lines Dean wouldn’t admit to writing. Did he know what Victor thought, now? The Cas he remembered wouldn’t be bothered — but did  _ Dean _ mind? This was his community, the people he lived with, his  _ friends _ outside the Hunting Network and the Men of Letters. Victor wasn’t a gossip, but if he  _ assumed _ something… Then inevitably Edenwood would as well. Did he  _ mind _ ? Dean-The-Ladies’-Men-Fucking-Winchester. 

But with Cas standing there, hands in his pockets, clad in his own clothes. Cas, next to the Impala,  _ alive _ . Back. For good.  _ Nah. _ He didn’t. 

Of course he didn’t. “I think he assumed we’re uh…” He swallowed, and  _ dammit _ he wished he had some booze in him  _ yesterday. _ “A couple. I let him, it’s a good alibi.”

Why they needed an alibi, to begin with, Cas didn’t ask. He just hummed in wonder, brow furrowed in bemusement. “I see. It doesn’t bother you?”

“Nah, you?”

“No, Dean.”

_ I need whiskey. Fuck, absinthe would be good right about now.  _ Sam would kill him if he slipped, though. And Cas needed him — sober, alert, awake and ready to jump in and stab any rogue angels if they posed a threat. Cas deserved better than the mess he’d become under the influence. 

_ (“Cas deserves better. You deserve better.”) _

“Let’s get some grub.”

 

* * *

 

Fridge stocked, garbage disposed of, and new clothes for Cas shoved neatly in the guestroom’s wardrobe; those tiny details that marked the difference between a house and a home. In a fit of determination, while Cas showered, Dean poured all the alcohol down the drain and kept the bottles for target practice or recycling, whichever he ended up doing first. All that drink had cost him a pretty penny, but when Cas revisited the living room he’d obviously noticed the empty shelves and had smiled in relief. 

Ten years ago, Dean would’ve given his own life ten times over to have Cas back. 

In comparison, booze was an easy sacrifice. 

Cas had a towel on his shoulders, and despite his new pajamas, he wore Dean’s old jumper and sweatpants. He sat, eyes glued to Dean’s tablet as he read the newest reports on climate change. Dean, on the other hand, busied himself cutting vegetables and tossing them in a pot, while he beat the eggs while adding a pinch pepper to add flavor to the omelet. 

He breathed in relief when his phone buzzed on the table, though the ruckus of the device vibrating against the counter drowned the TV still on in the living room. Hands full with a whisker and a bowl, He used the voice command to pick up on speaker, relieved at seeing Sam’s name on the screen. “Sammy!” he said in greeting. 

“Hey Dean, Cas.” Sammy’s voice had a strange inflection, the cheerful tome he adopted whenever he had a bagful of nada. “You settled in?”

“Pretty much,” Dean replied. “Bought veggies and all—but get to the point. You hear anything?”

Cas looked up from the article he’d been immersed in minutes ago. Pink lips pulled downward in concern, alarmed eyes shifting from the phone to Dean’s face. Cas could pretend all he wanted; that he didn’t worry, that he trusted Dean, that he’d recovered enough to take care of himself… Dean knew better. Because from the main bedroom to the guestroom there was a thin wall and he’d heard Cas’s whimpers mid-nightmare, he’d seen him study the streets unblinkingly, memorizing every curve, and analyzing every person as a potential threat. 

Perhaps he worried about The Empty, that abstract threat, or maybe he believed if an angel found him, they would kill him. Truth to be told, Dean’s gut told him it was the latter. His fist closed in on the whisker.  _ Over my dead body.  _

“We’re tracking the area around Edenwood in search for any unusual activity, satellite EMS, local TV and radio shows, you name it. James is keeping Dr. Fields in the loop, too.”

“What about Jack? He say anything?”

“He’s resting—the jump wiped him out. But he doesn’t believe it’s coincidence, either, so I’m thinking of dropping by, see if he can bring that angel back to Heaven or something.”

“Might have to kill it,” Dean hissed. Next to him, Cas grimaced. 

“Jack won’t want that, you know how it is in Heaven.”

Cas frowned in confusion, and Dean quickly explained. “There are barely enough angels to keep Heaven running — long story, I’ll fill you in later, but basically they need everyone they can get.”

“Then we shouldn’t kill it,” Cas said, his back straightening with tension. “Maybe I could convince it, or Jack, and—”

“Cas, man.” Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We can’t promise… I mean, we’ll try, Jack’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Silence reigned a few seconds before Sam cleared his throat on the other side of the line. “Sorry Cas, Dean’s right. There are angels on Earth but most of them are rogue,  _ wild _ , even. We’ll set off tomorrow morning after Jack gets some sleep, and see where we can go from there. He really wants to meet you, Cas.”

Cas’s pained expression melted, eyes softening as he smiled softly, gently, making Dean’s heart skip a few beats. He recognized that look, that velvety longing, as sweet as that morning’s breakfast confession. 

Dean’s stomach filled with warmth, and it scared the living shit out of him. 

“We’ll, um, have another look tomorrow morning. Around Edenwood, I mean.”

“Dean, maybe you should—”

“No,” Cas interrupted Sam, his voice clear and urgent. “No, Dean. Tomorrow you stay put,  _ we _ stay put, and we wait for Sam and Jack.”

“Cas, you don’t have to come along if you don’t want—”

“It’s not that,” the angel insisted, eyes glassy with concern and panic. “Dean, if that angel is like you say, ‘rogue’ and ‘wild,’ it might try to attack  _ you  _ to kill me. And I can’t protect you, not against an  _ angel _ , not like  _ this _ .”

The way he looked at his human body, the disdain he exuded for his own mortality and limitations, froze Dean. To Dean, if Cas died as a human it would mean he’d lose him  _ yet again _ , and to Cas, if Dean died… Cas wasn’t afraid for himself, obviously, because he’d never given a damn if Dean Winchester was involved.

_ Maybe this is why we don’t deserve each other. _

Before he could say something stupid, Sam blessedly jumped in. “Cas is right, we hold a better chance if it’s the four of us. We’ll be there tomorrow evening so stay put. Both of you.”

Sam hung up before they could argue, and the silence that followed weighed heavy with everything Cas hadn’t said, and Dean had heard.

_ Stupid, _ he’d think of himself later when the doorbell rang. The buzzer startled him, the bowl slipping from his hands and drenching his fingers in the gooey raw eggs. Cas, without saying a word, handed him a kitchen rag and beelined to the entrance while Dean soaped his hands while cursing. Only when the creek of the door opening processed in his brain, his instincts kicked in in time to leap out into the dark hallway. 

“ _ Cas _ !”

A loud crack shook the walls, and he watched as a shadow pulled Cas by his collar and threw him outside the house. Thudding smashed into the night as Dean flung himself outside, jumping the steps of his porch as that familiar figure dragged Cas outside on the deserted street with one hand, and showered him with punches with the other.

“Let him go, you sonofabitch!” Dean bellowed, body singing with adrenaline as a steady hand pointed his gun to Cas’s attacker.

Victor shoved Cas away, who fell to his knees and elbows as he precariously held his middle and coughed, a dark liquid coating the pavement and his hands. The doctor took two steps back, hands in the air, face pale with anger and disdain toward the angel on his feet. Dean had never seen that look on his face — an animalistic sneer, teeth bared and eyes glassy. 

“You, Dean Winchester, of all people, should know better than to get involved with  _ Castiel. _ ” Victor shook his head. “You’re a  _ hunter _ !”

Dean kept his gun trained on his forehead. A beat, before a red film enveloped his vision, swirling along with too many questions to deal with at the moment. He gritted his teeth, breathing shallowly as he geared himself for combat. Cas turned, slowly getting to his feet, his gasping breaths loud. His face was a bloody mess. 

“You fucking—I’ll fucking  _ kill  _ you!”

“I don’t think so.” Janine Richter’s petite figure had been invisible against the trunk of an old maple tree. Her easy smile and wide, curious blue eyes had turned cold and hooded as if caught mid-blink; her neat black curls shifted around her, held hovering in the air in static electricity. He didn’t need to see the orb flickering from his kitchen window, or the silvery sword in her hand to know who — what — she truly was.

Hackles rising, Dean took a deep breath before striding toward Cas, gun steady. He wouldn’t be able to kill an angel with a regular bullet, but nothing so far seemed to point that Victor was anything but human. The fact Janine hadn’t pounced yet meant she, too, feared him pressing the trigger.

He caught Cas before he could foolishly charge, pulling him roughly behind him.

“After all these years, you’re going to shoot me just like that?” Victor prodded, eyes wide. “Dean—we’ve known all along that you’re a hunter!”

“Yeah?” he responded, temples throbbing with impatience. “You know your wife is an angel, too, I gather. Lemme tell you somethin’, they ain’t harps and halos but real assholes.”

Victor took a sharp intake of breath, but Janine remained expressionless. “Dean Winchester, you should know to watch your tongue. Janine is quite fond of you.”

“Oh, so Janine’s your meatsuit?” Dean shot back. He turned to Victor, his aim still on point. “Some weird threesome shit you’ve got goin’ around. It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Enough!” Janine bellowed, and if Dean didn’t live in the outskirts he was sure someone would’ve called the cops by now. Better this way. “Castiel. You should’ve stayed  _ dead _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Announcement:**
> 
>  
> 
> I’m taking prompts! I’m planning on a few case!chapters from now on, and I was hoping some of you might be interested in requesting anything you might want to read. Here’s what I need:  
> \- Please announce your prompt via comments in this fic.  
> \- Characters you want portrayed, and monster of the week (even how you want them to be beaten, if you have any specifications). Really, any information/additional pointers that might be useful.  
> \- Tags, if any. 
> 
> Please note, however: 
> 
> \- I might need to modify any of the given settings, especially for plot-serving purposes. However, I’ll be as faithful as possible in respect and appreciation to you, and as a challenge to myself.  
> \- In relation to Destiel or any other relationships, I will follow my progression plan (so I won’t take smut requests, or even kisses or handholding—it’ll come! But in its own time).  
> \- I will take the liberty of rejecting prompts that I find inadequate, but I will tell you the reason why (if possible) and offer alterations.  
> \- This is only a temporary thing, and I only take prompts from the Eagles!Verse. I will eventually move on from the prompts in order to advance the plot.  
> \- Despite it being case!chapters, independent from the overall story, I will add background information relevant to the actual storyline, so it’ll all be connected.  
> \- The prompts will begin at chapter Eleven, because Ten is partially written and won’t allow for it just yet.  
> \- If I don’t get enough prompts to keep this up, I’ll still have cases and an update schedule, so it shouldn’t affect readers who aren’t into this thing.  
> \- I don’t make promises on the length of your case: it might make a whole chapter or just be mentioned in passing mid-another case, I’ll do the best I can with what I’ve been given, and how workable it is (this is subjective). 
> 
> That’s really all I can think of at the moment, but I might have to add more points as this progresses! I’ll keep updating on tumblr on a more regular basis, but will also make announcements with each new chapter. 
> 
> Love you all! Peace out!


	10. One of Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Implied alcoholism. Canon-typical violence.

**** The angel wore a woman, petite, with black curly locks falling down to her back, eyes a clear blue — a cold shadow of ice. Of all the abilities to have lost after his return, not being able to recognize his sibling hit Castiel like a whip on his spine. His nose burned with heat, numb with pain, a distasteful metallic taste resting on his tongue, and though he itched to wipe the blood off his face, he feared to look away from her. If she charged, he needed to intercept her. A few feet from him, the man he’d met that same day, Victor Richter, panted heavily, eyes fixed on Dean’s gun.

_ You should’ve stayed dead _ . At this moment, he believed her.

“W-who are you?” he rasped and spat a mouthful of blood. “What do you want?”

“You don’t recognize me,” she whispered, brows furrowing. “You haven’t just lost your powers, you’re human.”

“I am,” Castiel admitted. He glanced at Dean, whose face was pale with anger, eyes darting between the two. “I’m not back to hurt you. Any of you.”

He knew angels, and the affection this one had for Victor reflected like a mirror his own for Dean. At first, her posture almost slumped in arrogance and with the knowledge that human bullets wouldn’t kill her, but she regarded Dean’s gun with suspicion, ready to pounce if he pulled that trigger. The glare he received spoke of the distrust, the magnitude of her disdain. Slowly, Castiel raised one arm in the air, while with the other he held Dean’s outstretched wrist and pointed the pistol away from Victor. Dean hissed in protest but followed his lead when the tension of everyone’s shoulders deflated.

“Castiel. Why are you back?” she repeated.

“I made It.”

“’ _ It’ _ ?” she echoed, mouth turning downward. “Angels don’t come back, we don’t get to return from Death.”

“We don’t die,” he pressed, moving forward, hands in the air. Dean cursed under his breath and took a step with him, the weapon’s muzzle up at the sky, but the barrel still very much loaded. “We go to The Empty, where all angels and demons sleep. The entity that lives there... I made It bring me back.”

“Why?” she insisted, eyes widening with intent, and Dean reached to point his weapon again, but Castiel held his hand and pointed it up again. He didn’t let go.

“Because I had work to do—there was so much to be done.” He took a deep breath. “When I... when Lucifer killed me, Jack, the Nephilim, opened a door to another dimension where another Michael destroyed the world—I had to stop it! I had to make sure he wouldn’t come, I swore I’d protect Jack, and because I couldn’t abandon... my family.”

“But that happened...”

“Ten years ago,” Dean rasped, voice tight. “We know. The Empty has a wicked sense of humor.”

“Why, why wait so long?” she pressed.

“That’s the million dollar question, honey,” Dean replied, and Victor shifted in annoyance. “What I wanna know, however, is who the hell are you—and how long have you been tailing me.”

Silence drowned in their refusal to answer, and Dean’s cheek began to twitch with impatience. The night had fallen, taking with it any source of light other than the flickering coming from the orb in Dean’s house and a few scattered streetlamps; and where the day had been bitingly cold, now a sharp chill settled in Castiel’s bones. The adrenaline wore off and, with it, the sense of urgency and the numbness. He shivered. Dean noticed and nodded at Castiel to head inside.

“Let’s go in. ‘Cause  _ you’re  _ gonna talk.”

 

* * *

 

 

Janine Richter bit her lip, twirling her curly hair around a slender finger, as her gaze shifted from her husband, to Dean, to Castiel. She exuded a vastly different aura — Suriel’s hard, almost deafening presence swindled like a parody into this tiny woman. Victor’s arm was around her, his knuckles white, his eyes trained on Dean’s unarmed hands. The couple sat on the couch, huddled together.

“Dean, I-I’m sorry. I never meant to deceive you.” Her voice rang differently. Higher. Human. “Suriel’s just scared because of… because of him.” When Castiel sighed, she even leaned backward in fright. “She’s trying to protect us—Edenwood. She’s good. I promise.”

“She’s an angel.” Dean’s tone held none of the bite he’d shown Suriel, but the contempt echoed loudly.

Suriel, the angel of wisdom and healing. Castiel remembered her — an opinionated sister who had kept to the sidelines until Hannah had recruited her after Metatron tricked him into locking the Gates of Heaven. Fierce, loyal, and brave, she’d fought against the angels the scribe had sent her way, and after Hannah’s death, Castiel hadn‘t known what fate had befallen her. To think she’d found her true vessel in one Janine Richter…

“She saved my life,” Janine insisted, frowning. “I was dying.”

“Cancer,” Victor added.

Castiel remembered it — how he’d easily healed Jimmy’s body after their fated “yes” had permanently tied them together. The ease in which the muscles and flesh had sewn back together, the blood replenishing as the reigns were once again in Castiel’s hands. He hadn’t thought twice about possessing the man — Claire’s father. Suriel, however, instead of breaking a family apart… She’d kept one intact.

“You knew what she was,” Dean muttered. “All this time.” He remained in his spot next to the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw set and eyes unblinking.

“I told him,” Janine confessed. “I thought I was delirious when Suriel came to me.”

“And you’ve met them both, it’s impossible not to tell the difference.” Victor shrugged. “I’m a man of science, but I’ve seen what Suriel can do.”

“So you were, what, keeping an eye on me?” Dean barked. “That I wouldn’t turn and kill the angel?” The threat that he still might hovered, but Janine just smiled.

“Yes. And believe it or not, not all angels hate you, Dean Winchester.”

He scoffed. “You ain’t in the loop.” Before Janine could interrupt again, he cleared his throat. “So then what, you came out of hiding because of Cas?”

Castiel looked away. “I told Suriel. I mean no harm.”

“I trust you,” Janine exclaimed. “No—listen.  _ I  _ do. Suriel might need some time to come around but she trusts my instincts. I was right about Dean.”

If Dean’s grim countenance was anything to go by, he was feeling the betrayal of their friendship like a gaping physical wound, and Castiel had to stop himself from touching him, aware that he no longer could heal or soothe with his fingers and a thought. If Janine was wrong and Suriel did want him to suffer for his past sins, all he had to do was confirm that, indeed, Dean was his weakness.

“Plus,” she added, pursing her lips in half a smile. “She can’t hurt you here, can she?” She pointed at the ceiling, which held a number of traps and sigils. Castiel had recognized them that same morning, they lined every window and door frame.

Suriel had had to hide deep into the abyss of Janine’s conscience for her to go through the entrance. She’d assured them Suriel couldn’t even speak to Janine, let alone take over, while confined in these walls.

“Pfft,” Dean grumbled. “All these years and  _ now _ we find out. Sam’s gonna freak.”

Castiel hid a smile at how quickly Dean’s defensiveness had melted into a reticent olive branch — Suriel trusted Janine, and Castiel trusted Dean. Suriel was suspicious of him, of course she was, but she hadn’t killed him and not for lack of opportunities before Dean caught up to them. 

“As long as Castiel’s not here to harm us, Suriel won’t hurt him, you have my word.” Janine stood up, palms up in the air. “She just got defensive… but she knows better. I mean… he’s human, now. He’s one of us.”

_ One of us. _ Castiel stared, a warmth that had nothing to do with the throbbing in his face blooming. He’d long accepted his humanity and the fragility and emotions it came with, but it was the first time someone  _ outside _ of Sam and Dean had readily taken him in. If Suriel could find it in her to forgive his sins, then he would be completely reborn.

“He is, and don’t you let Suriel forget that.”

Victor grimaced, but Janine beamed at them. “Let’s be friends — no more secrets. We know, Dean, about you and Sam saving the world over and over again, all the angels know. It’s like you said, if Castiel is here in peace, then we are all allies.”

Neither Dean nor Castiel moved when she took her husband’s hand and led him out the front door, and her relaxed shoulders didn’t shift with the rigidness of possession. The couple walked slowly, her heels tapping into the night, and vanished into the darkness. They stood in the living room, almost paralyzed with the enormity of this encounter. Dean mulling over his friends keeping secrets from him — Castiel in awe at an alliance with his sister.

They remained like that for a while, Castiel still had trouble telling the passing of time as a human. But then Dean started and sprinted toward him, the lines in his mouth straight with apprehension. Before Castiel could question him, a big, calloused hand made its way to his face, dry fingers brushing the nasty bump in his cheekbone. Castiel hissed in pain.

“Sorry—fuck. Sorry. We need to ice that.” He turned and walked to the kitchen, and by the time Castiel thought to follow him, Dean was already back with a bulky rag in tow. “Should’a done it sooner. Sorry, man.” When the ice touched his face, Castiel winced but managed not to flinch away.

The cold touch contrasted beautifully against Dean’s hand on his other cheek.

 

* * *

 

_ Tapping, clacking, drumming, it all thundered in a lump of sounds and harrowing vibrations.  _ (“ **_Your memories,_ ** ”)  _ They bounced against the walls of his skull, drilling holes, screaming without voices. _ (“ **_your little feelings,_ ** ”)  _ Throbbing coursed through his body, boiling, freezing, shocking him with electrifying bouts of agony.  _ (“ **_yes._ ** ”)  _ Dean stood in front of him, young, whole, lacking the marks and the beautiful evidence he’d aged, the gray flannel shirt accentuating his green eyes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows proudly showing off his lean arms.  _ (“ **_I know what you hate._ ** ”) _ He could see it — how inconspicuous it was, small, and how much power that Mark of Cain held, that it had twisted Dean’s innate purity, turning him inside out, ripping the Righteous Man as he used his fists against Castiel. _ (“ **_I know who you_ ** **love…** ”)  _ He’d lain on the floor of the Bunker, staring at the angel blade stabbed in an ancient tome, wondering why Dean had deflected that last blow with that flick of the wrist; whether he should be glad Dean hadn’t gone through with his promise, or if he was to watch his ward, his everything, break the world with him in it. _ (“ **_what you fear._ ** ”)  _ Dean was gone, he was leaving, with the Mark, with Amara, into the dimension where he hadn’t even been born — and finally into a life where Castiel was no longer and Dean still was everything. _ (“ **_There is nothing for you back there._ ** _ ” _ ”)

“Shh… it’s okay. It was a dream, just a nightmare. Sleep, Cas. I gotcha.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel could not pinpoint where it began — with him not ‘eating enough’ for breakfast? He blamed Dean and his refusal to believe in Suriel, in his own self-proclaimed friend Janine, that they wouldn’t burst into the house and murder him out of belated spite. Dean prowled from window to window, glaring at cars, both an angel blade and a gun nested in the back of his belt ready to use. Whenever Castiel chided him for jumping in alarm, Dean snapped at him. Each time, he eyed the sink and then the bottles piled up neatly in a cardboard box; Castiel didn’t need his celestial powers to know what he was thinking.

He counted the hours until Sam’s arrival.

Suriel could’ve killed him — she’d had plenty of opportunities, and even if Dean  _ had  _ shot Victor, Suriel surely had the ability to bring the man back to life. She wanted him dead, or so she’d proclaimed, but the Suriel he knew was good, and Castiel was still alive to prove it. 

And he trusted Janine, he simply  _ did. _

Dean, however, swore and cursed at random intervals. He muttered about trust and ‘backstabbing sons of bitches’ and other explicit acts of torture surely inspired by Alastair. As the hours stretched on, his mood swung from mighty fury to mumbled apologies; and honestly, when Sam’s car door slammed shut in the driveway later that evening, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. Even Dean’s face, from his slouched position on the sofa with a coke in his hand, softened, his jaw unclenching as he disregarded his cellphone on the table and jumped up to the entrance.

To Castiel’s dismay, he clutched the blade on his back, as he opened the door.

“Sammy.” There was a rustle as Castiel looked up and saw Dean nod at his brother, who beamed.

“Hey, Dean. Hi, Cas.”

Sam nodded at him, a hand raised in greeting, but Castiel’s attention focused on the newcomer.

Sam had told him about Jack. He’d even seen the pictures of the Nephilim who saved the world and ruled Heaven, a young man since birth. The light brown hair framed his youthful face, serene blue eyes wide open, his lips curved in a candid smile he’d certainly learned from the younger Winchester. He stood there, shyly, a step behind Sam, hiding his hands in the pockets of his wine-colored leather jacket.

“Castiel?” Even his voice sounded young, unguarded. But Castiel didn’t need to be an angel to hear the longing, the hope. When Jack’s arms opened in an insecure welcome in the form of a hug, Castiel stepped in and held him back, the same rush of pride as he’d felt for Claire washing over him like a breeze. “I missed you so much.”

“Sam and Dean tell me you’re doing well,” he answered, watching the son of Kelly Kline beam at his words. Sam chuckled, and even Dean huffed a laugh.

“Heaven’s been quiet for the last five years,” Dean said, locking the door as he ushered them into the living room. “That’s an A-plus in my book.”

“I’m just happy you’re here at all,” Jack replied, still barely blinking. “Of course I believed Sam when he told me but…” He laughed. “Welcome home, Castiel.”

Castiel tried to respond, but the words were trapped somewhere, refusing to leave his mouth, and he had to look away to face the onslaught of emotions. He’d missed so much,  _ so much _ . It was hard to digest on a good day, what with all the physical changes and the world around him evolving by leaps and bounds... And yet.

“Sorry it took me this long.”

A hand on his shoulder startled Castiel as Dean led him to sit on the sofa, while Sam claimed the armchair and Jack position himself on the armrest. While Dean busied himself in the kitchen — mumbling out loud that he’d never gotten around to buying the  _ good _ coffee — Sam, frowning, urged Castiel to update them on last night’s events. Grimacing, Castiel told them about Suriel and her unfounded concerns, and watched as Sam’s expression hardened in shock when he recounted Janine’s promise and Victor’s annoyance.

“You mean all this time… there was an angel here? And she knew about  _ Dean _ ?” Sam repeated.

“Seriously, you think you  _ know _ a guy…” Dean hissed, setting the cups of coffee with more force than necessary so they clanged loudly and their drink sloshed precariously against the edges. “I’ve been thinking about it the whole day — Sam, they’ve had plenty of opportunities to kill me. I didn’t suspect anything.”

“So they’re telling the truth?” Jack asked, shifting when Dean sat himself between him and Castiel. “They were just… watching you?”

“Yeah, angels seem to dig that.”

Castiel’s mug almost slipped from his hands, but he saved it before drenching himself with hot coffee. His fingers trembled, so he returned the cup to the low table and pretended not to see Dean staring at him with a pointed look.

“Um, so,” Sam interrupted. “We can trust them.”

“Yes,” Castiel said at the same time as Dean’s “No.”

“You’ve said it yourself, Dean.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “They could’ve killed you before but they didn’t, and Castiel believes she just wanted to make sure he wasn’t causing any trouble.”

Dean stood up, practically baring his teeth. “Well, I ain’t risking it!”

“She didn’t kill me,” Castiel insisted, raising his voice and sitting up to be on eye level. He pretended not to see Dean’s glassy-eyes nor the flush creeping up his neck. “She could’ve, and she didn’t. I have faith in her.”

“ _ We don’t get wins like that _ ,” Dean grunted, fists so tight his knuckles popped white in contrast to his tanned skin. Sam shook his head at Jack, who shut his mouth in a sad grimace. Castiel knew he was missing something there — again — but he felt it blossom anyway in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Sam and Jack to leave, and he loathed himself for the thought. Dean kept speaking. “Cas, buddy. I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Who the fuck knows, maybe if I breathe wrong you’ll just  _ die _ all over again, or Sammy or Jack, but you can’t expect me to  _ believe _ you’re  _ back  _ and there ain’t hell to pay. Because shit like this doesn’t happen to us, man, you know it.”

“—Dean!” Castiel interrupted, his heart slamming against his ribcage as Dean clucked his tongue and turned away from them—from him. Sam and Jack’s gazes weighed heavily on his shoulders, the ghost of the earlier embarrassment now a supernova of… He didn’t have the word. Not for that dense, heavy ball of cold lead resting snugly in the pit of his stomach. “I’m back.”

“Cas, you—”

“—no! You don’t get to decide what the price of my return  _ is _ because  _ I’m _ willing to pay it!” Dean took a sharp intake of breath at Castiel’s words. “Because it got me  _ back. _ To you.” A pause. “To all of you.”

The addendum hung heavily in the room, but Castiel had only eyes for Dean. He didn’t miss the wrinkles around Dean’s lips deepening, the tightness of his eyelids, the shaky quality of his sigh. He pressed a fist against his mouth, and Castiel would never know if he’d imagined the tears in Dean’s eyes. After all, in a blink, they were gone.

Dean cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Dean,” Jack interrupted. His voice carried lightly, but the arch of his eyebrows was telling. “I won’t bother Suriel because Castiel believes her. But I promise I will look out for you. Heaven’s your friend, now.”

“A lot’s changed,” Sam chuckled, his eyes never leaving Dean’s furrowed brow. “But if it makes you feel better—safer, you can come back to the Bunker. I’ll kick out James, and Mike, even Patience, if you want. It’s your home, too.”

“Nah,” Dean replied gruffly. “We’ll—” He frowned and twisted his wrist to glance at his watch, which had lit up. “Jesus, Jody.  _ Timing _ .” And without a word, he swiped the phone off the table and headed toward the kitchen.

Sam nodded at Castiel to sit and handed him the lukewarm coffee, which he didn’t drink. Just holding the mug kept his hands busy, and he inhaled the acidy aroma he’d begun to associate with Dean’s lifestyle. Not fancy, but rich and warm. Comforting. They said nothing, Dean’s muffled voice from the kitchen wafting in the air. Castiel wondered what Sam thought behind that small smile, what secrets he still held onto that made him seem so wise, wiser than Castiel who’d lived millennia longer. Jack watched the closed door with interest — he could probably hear Dean’s words, but then his eyes would shift to Castiel and he’d grin, unguarded, as though he’d known him forever and not less than half an hour.

Dean burst from the door, his face set in a neutral expression as he regarded everyone sitting awkwardly in the living room area. He shrugged. “That was Jody.”

“Oh,” Sam prompted.

“About your offer, Sammy…” Dean shook his head, but the corners of his lips lifted. “We’re good. You do your research thing — Jack, you know you’re always welcome but without you, Heaven falls apart.”

Castiel frowned.

Dean slumped on the sofa, spreading his arms along the backrest, almost reaching Castiel’s shoulders. “Cas and I are goin’ hunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Announcement:**
> 
> I’m still taking prompts! Here’s what I need if you're interested in requesting:  
> \- Please announce your prompt via comments in this fic.  
> \- Characters you want portrayed, and monster of the week (even how you want them to be beaten, if you have any specifications). Really, any information/additional pointers that might be useful.  
> \- Tags, if any.
> 
> Please note, however:
> 
> \- I might need to modify any of the given settings, especially for plot-serving purposes. However, I’ll be as faithful as possible in respect and appreciation to you, and as a challenge to myself.  
> \- In relation to Destiel or any other relationships, I will follow my progression plan (so I won’t take smut requests, or even kisses or handholding—it’ll come! But in its own time).  
> \- I will take the liberty of rejecting prompts that I find inadequate, but I will tell you the reason why (if possible) and offer alterations.  
> \- This is only a temporary thing, and I only take prompts from the Eagles!Verse. I will eventually move on from the prompts in order to advance the plot.  
> \- Despite it being case!chapters, independent from the overall story, I will add background information relevant to the actual storyline, so it’ll all be connected.  
> \- If I don’t get enough prompts to keep this up, I’ll still have cases and an update schedule, so it shouldn’t affect readers who aren’t into this thing.  
> \- I don’t make promises on the length of your case: it might make a whole chapter or just be mentioned in passing mid-another case, I’ll do the best I can with what I’ve been given, and how workable it is (this is subjective).
> 
> Love you all! Peace out!


	11. Interlude One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Suicidal thoughts. Canon-typical violence. This episode is narrated in a non-linear fashion. 
> 
> Also, please note that I’m not a mental health professional, so any advice Dr. Fields gives is for plot-servicing reasons only. If you struggle with mental health issues, please seek a professional. We love you.
> 
> Apologies for the update delay! I've been dealing with some things in RL, which will considerably slow down my writing and updating. I'm not abandoning the fic, but updates might be scarce for the time being... Sorry.

“You broke your arm?” 

Dean cleared his throat at the question, unsure whether Dr. Fields needed him to answer. The cast and heavy sling would tip anybody off, nevermind a trained physician. He closed the door behind him as he stepped into her office, the cheery pale yellow walls a familiar sight. Several framed pictures hung on them next to her numerous diplomas, hand-drawn scribbles by her youngest patients in shrill colors, and more serene artwork by actual professionals. Black bookcases lined the wall behind her, the books heavy and filled with information that would have Sammy’s eyes do that happy thing when he was excited. There was a wide privacy window framed by folded navy curtains, illuminating the room. 

Linda Fields, a grown adult woman who barely reached his shoulders even with heels, became even tinier in her working space. Why she insisted on such a big chair and that monstrous desk was beyond him — and still, it was empty except for a small laptop and a lamp. She stared at him with green-brown eyes behind cat-eyed glasses, her hair perfectly combed in a neat blonde bun. 

If anyone had ever asked Dean what a supernatural psychiatrist looked like, he’d never guessed she was the stereotypical soccer-mom come to life. And still, despite her knowing smile and sharp gaze, he trusted her with his deepest, darkest secrets. In return, he got something that resembled sanity. 

He flopped down on the leather couch, mindful of his injury. “Djinn.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head. “Another one?”

“It’s been three years since the last one,” he replied. 

She hummed. “Did it catch you?” When he didn’t reply. “Not you, then.”

“Cas.”

“Huh.” 

He’d told her about Cas’s return, about his descent into madness and hard liquor, about them moving together to Edenwood. She barely raised an eyebrow when he’d gone into the details of Suriel, Janine, and Victor. Dr. Fields listened calmly to the goriest of stories, the filthiest of thoughts, and had never let it bother her. The fact her own son, James Fields, worked actively with Sam gave her inside knowledge, so Dean didn’t have to go over the tiniest of details and waste time explaining how to gunk the monsters he faced — she already knew. 

“It poisoned him,” he admitted. 

He refused to describe the otherworldly fear that engulfed him. Jody had saved the day, really. She’d been the one to throw the angel blade and hit its chest, and had later chewed Dean’s ear off for freezing like that mid-hunt. He’d been embarrassed, screw that, humiliated, but he’d shut down upon seeing Cas’s unmoving body on the floor. 

“Is he alright?”

“Yeah. Banged his head, but the poison cleared out quickly.” 

Cas had refused to say what he’d dreamed about — but Dean suspected. He knew. Cas wouldn’t meet his eyes, he’d fidget, and he spoke in his sleep. Not that Dean had told him. 

“Did he tell you what he saw?” Dr. Fields asked, straightening out her blouse. Dean said nothing. “I see. Does that bother you?” 

“He calls out my name. When he sleeps. In his dreams.” He flushed, but he kept his eyes on her. She knew about  _ his _ dream back in the day. Three years ago, on his own hunting trip with Donna, the poison had almost driven him crazy with happiness — and then absolute grief. 

“Do you think he saw the same things?” 

No use in beating around the bush. “Yeah.”

She smiled, but her eyebrows tilted downward. “You’re not happy about the possibilities.”

“Dr. Fields.” He sighed, readjusting his position from the couch to actually raising his feet on the padded cushions, entwining his fingers behind his head. “He’s mortal. Even if there ain’t no big end-of-the-world shitstorm after all, if I wait long enough, he’s gonna die anyway. Again. And if it happens when if I’m  _ happy _ , it’s going to kill me.”

“Dean—”

“You ain’t hearing me.” His voice didn’t shake, but his fingers were numb under his head. “I might be able to survive him dying again if I stay a miserable son of a bitch. But if I let myself be happy? I’ll eat a bullet. And this” — he shifted, raising his arms to point at his surroundings — “would’ve been for  _ nothing. _ Sammy’s worry, the hours you’re wasting on me,  _ every single person _ who made sure I survived  _ that _ , would be so fucking disappointed. And I owe it to them, to  _ you _ , to make it out alive of whatever clusterfuck’s on its way.”

He’d ended up raising his voice, but her face remained calm. “Dean, why are you so sure he’s going to die?”

“Have you  _ met _ me? The people I love,  _ die. _ ”

“Sam’s alive.” She raised her hand to interrupt him. “Your friends, your  _ family _ are alive. They might die any day in a freak accident, and you still allow yourself to love them.”

“It’s not the same with him.”

“Dean.” She did that thing with her voice, that drop, that automatically made him tear his gaze from the fan on the ceiling and look at her. She was pale, eyes wide. “I haven’t met Castiel, but I’ve heard enough about him to know that he deserves better than this—this  _ charade _ . No,  _ listen _ to me. He  _ made it back _ for you. For  _ you _ . I don’t think you know how crazy that is, angels don’t come back. Humans do, fine, but  _ angels _ ? He’s the first one, the  _ only _ one. He deserves better than this.” 

“You don’t—”

“—I do!” She got up from her seat and crouched, eye-level with him. “I know I’m right, and I know  _ you _ know. Because Castiel will die someday, yes, but you can either make his existence a happy one, a  _ worthy _ one, or just a half-baked mess and repeat what happened ten years ago.” He closed his eyes to avoid looking at her. To hide the tears that burned behind his eyelids. “Dean,  _ you _ deserve better. You deserve  _ him _ . And he’s finally here.”

 

* * *

 

_ Castiel’s eyes never left Dean’s — the golden specks in their bottomless green, the hardened wall that hid the scars, the intensity of every promise and word unsaid. Freckles dusted his cheekbones, flushed with cheer, puffed up with an unabashed smile. The lips stretched pink and endless. Honest. His laughter thrummed, vibrating deep into Castiel’s chest and tingling the tip of his fingers and toes. With the boldness of the desperate, Castiel sighed and reached out, fingers curving on the back of Dean’s neck as he drew the hunter in for a kiss.  _

_ And he shouldn’t have breathed out as he did that, because now he’d been rendered breathless. But he didn’t care, not when Dean’s mouth opened and his warm, wet tongue parted his lips and swallowed him whole. A gasp, Dean’s? His own? It broke the silence and marked the beginning of a new crescendo of clothes ruffling, broken moans, and shy caresses.  _

_ Dean laughed as he pressed in deeper, greedy and bold, confident with everything he’d never been in real life. Castiel knew it deep down — this wasn’t Dean Winchester, because Dean hated himself. He groaned nonetheless at the intensity of his touch, the heat in his skin.  _

_ If this was a dream,  _ then so be it _.  _

_ Perhaps God’s way of apologizing for human mortality were these dreams, the endless landscape of their deepest desires at night. Dean would never hold him like that, so tight it hurt in a good way, because they were doomed to fail from the start.  _

_ Alarmed by the thought, Castiel pried open his eyes when the kiss broke — before sliding shut again as Dean leaped forward, the panic vanishing in a tumble of heat, desperation, and raw, unadulterated want. A high, whimpering sound broke from his throat, and Dean dove in with even more hunger.  _

_ Hands flew everywhere, from their jaws, to shoulders, to hips. “I gotcha,” Dean rasped. His pupils were blown wide, their green almost gone in a burst of lust. Castiel’s blood boiled, lighting something deep inside his gut, like bubbles, like butterflies, like fireworks. _

 

* * *

 

“What you told me,” Dr. Fields continued after resuming her seat, the desk an enormous barrier between them, “was that in your Djinn dream, Castiel was alive.”

Dean nodded, his throat dry. Dr. Fields recorded their sessions and James had let slip that she transcribed them and pored over her notes until she memorized the details of her patients. Back then, after Donna had driven him back to Edenwood, still weak from the poison, his chest had hurt from more than a broken rib and a bruised ego. They’d had to up Dean’s sessions with her to a daily basis because the trauma of waking up from a dream without Cas had felt unbearable. 

He’d powered through it like a machine — shouting in her office, punching her old desk, but they’d managed. Dr. Fields had guided Dean, pulled him away from the brink of yet another cliff. 

The dream teased him sometimes, at night, whenever he fell into deep sleep. The rogue thoughts would peek into his mind, distract him. 

Embedded in the hallucination, Cas’s eyes had shone brightly — almost as blue as in reality, but brighter than his old memories. His breath had come raspy, and his shaky sighs easily took hold of Dean’s poisoned mind. He’d jumped as he’d never dared to before, claiming his mouth, desperate to tell Cas everything he left unsaid before Lucifer killed him again.  _ Because he’s dead. _ The moment the realization sank in, Donna had broken the spell by distracting the Djinn who'd been feeding off Dean. Blind with rage, he killed it. 

In his subconscious, he’d made a promise to Cas. (“ _ I gotcha”). _ Except he didn’t, because Cas wasn’t there, to begin with. 

“It was a good dream,” he admitted, shrugging, cursing the blush that crept hotly up his neck. “He was alive.”

“You were together,” she pressed, her voice low and no-nonsense. 

“It was a kiss,” he spat. “In a dream. We weren’t together. We were never  _ together. _ ” He cringed at the word. 

“Maybe not. You could be.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If you told him, and if he consented...”

“He wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Dean wanted to argue — that he  _ did _ ,  _ more  _ than her, in fact. The excuses he’d used as a crutch a decade ago remained sturdy as the memories washed over him. Cas had left him more times that he could count, and Dean had abandoned him just as often. They pushed each other away the moment they stepped in too close, only to jump forward in a panic until they got hurt. 

But Castiel’s expression when Dean had woken him up… They’d ended up huddled in the middle of a cave, Dean clutching him to his chest, cheek pressed against his cold and clammy forehead. He’d known. Because Cas’s lips had opened in wanting, eyes unblinking and fixed on Dean’s mouth. 

Dean  _ knew _ . He was being an idiot, but he  _ knew _ . 

“He would,” he acknowledged. 

Dr. Fields nodded, lips pursed. “Question is, are you going to do something about it?” Before he could answer, she added. “Are you going to allow yourself to be happy?”

Was he? He was Dean-fucking-Winchester. Fuck-up extraordinaire. Filled with so much self-loathing he was willing to keep Cas away to protect him from —  _ from what, genius? _ Because Cas wanted him. So which was more powerful: the hate he had for himself, or the desire to make Cas happy? 

“I can’t make him happy. I’ll make him miserable.”

“You can’t decide that for him,” Dr. Fields said. “Only he gets to do that.”

He bit his lip. “He’ll regret me.”

“Will he, though?”

“No.” Because that was Dean’s lack of self-esteem speaking, not Castiel. “I don’t deserve to be happy.”

“If you can’t find it in you to be happy for  _ yourself _ ,” she said, leaning back in her hair, “that’s okay. We will work on that. But Castiel deserves to be happy — you said so yourself. And he won’t until you are—”

“—that’s fucked up.”

“So do it _ for him _ . Be happy  _ for him _ until you can do it for yourself.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Dean rolled his eyes as Dr. Fields huffed a laugh. 

“That will be it for today’s session, Dean.” She got to her feet and walked toward the entrance of her office. He pulled himself from his slumped position on the sofa and followed her, shaking her hand when she offered it to him. He said nothing, contrite. But she was smiling. “I am so happy for you.”

With a promise to book their next appointment, Dean left her clinic feeling strangely light in the chest; but heavier everywhere else.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Castiel knew how to deal with Djinns, of course he did, but Dean felt compelled to remind him not to underestimate them, not to hesitate and go straight to the heart, and to listen to his instructions. At first, Castiel listened attentively, but as the instructions began to loop, his mood darkened and his frustration began to show. Even Jody, who was no stranger to Dean’s style, teased him about turning into a broken record. _

_ “He’ll be fine!” Jody promised for the umpteenth time when Dean finally parked outside the nest. “Sure, he’s rusty, but give the guy some credit.”  _

_ Dean slammed the door shut and glared at the naked trees surrounding them. “He’s  _ human  _ now,” he insisted, eyes squinting as he took in Castiel’s appearance — as though he’d magically changed his outfit or something. Dean had insisted his new clothes were too nice to rip in a hunting trip, so instead, he’d offered his old jeans, faded plaid, and a warm anorak. “Maybe I should go alone.” _

_ “Dean Winchester,” Jody exclaimed, hands on her hips as she glared at him. “Why on Earth would you want to go alone when you have  _ two  _ competent hunters  _ with  _ you?” _

_ Jody had retired from the police force permanently, though according to Claire she still took the occasional case if young children were involved. She’d first called Donna, who had been forced to decline because of a hurting hip, and had called Dean expecting him to assign her another partner. Instead, she’d gotten them both.  _

_ According to the stories she’d shared with Castiel on the ride, she resented retirement. Working as a sheriff came with its trauma and baggage, but staying put went against her nature. When Dean had stopped to fill the Impala’s tank (gasoline stands were few and in between nowadays), she’d confessed feeling her age painfully, how old injuries would flare up, and how in a few years her slowing reaction time might cost her her life. When Castiel had asked if she planned on stopping, or in taking a stable position like Dean’s, she’d smiled sadly.  _

_ “It’s not that…”  _

_ Castiel heard the answer Dean didn’t want to give — that he was worried about them, that he didn’t want to see either of them hurt. Jody, for one, wasn’t having it, so he stood next to her, his arms crossed in defiance. Dean shot them both a nasty look before grumbling something under his breath and handing them their weapons. “ _ Fine _! Should’a called Claire to clean this up…” _

_ Jody huffed and readjusted the beanie that covered her hair. “This had better not be any ageist bullshit.” She winked at Castiel before facing the side of a steep hill. She took heavy strides so as not to slip with the dead, damp leaves, and raised her arm in victory. “Found it!” As promised by the locals, a tiny stream ran down the side of the mountain, which would take them to the entrance of the nest.  _

_ Gripping his angel blade, Castiel followed her and noticed the water pooling, its natural course interrupted by a natural pond, which marked… “Here!” he called. With a gloved hand, he carefully parted some weeds and vines from the side of a steep hill. He was met with little resistance. “Something’s been using this cave recently,” he guessed as he widened the gap. It was wide enough for him to fit through if he crouched a bit.  _

_ “Cas, wait,” Dean hissed behind him.  _

_ Along with the brightness of the early afternoon, the frigid air and biting wind outside vanished — instead, he was hit with the heavy musky scent of decaying nature, the stench so sharp it lodged firmly in the back of his throat. He gagged, a wave of nausea blighting any other sense, and before he knew it he’d hit the hard wall on the side. He couldn’t tell what he was touching, it felt like rock, but it had a grainy quality to it.  _ No. This isn’t natural. 

_ Dean. He needed to find Dean.  _

_ “Dean! Jody!”  _

_ His own voice blared back at him, all sounds from the outside swallowed. Something shuffled behind him, or was it in front of him? He’d moved sideways to avoid vomiting, and the area he found himself in was smaller than he’d thought at first. _ I need to get out of here.  _ Blind against the darkness, he pushed against the rocks to find the entryway he’d slipped through, but ended up hitting his temple. _

_ With a grimace, he tightened his grip on his sword and felt his way through the solid back of the cavern, following it with slow footsteps. As soon as some space cleared up behind him, he reached inside his back pocket. Dean had given him a cell phone and— _

_ A dull thud reverberated across every cell in his body, loud and hard, and he only had a second to register the pain before he lost consciousness.  _

_ “ _ Cas _!” _

 

* * *

 

( _ “I gotcha.” _ ) 

Castiel woke up with a gasp and a wince. Heart thundering in his chest, he let himself fall back into the pillow, eyes wide as he took in the darkness of Dean’s bedroom. Unlike the guest room he’d been using, the white walls were inked with black sigils. Papers lined every surface, newspaper clips, photos, pages of what he knew had been John Winchester’s diary. A huge map of the United States decorated one side of the wall, and pins and scribbles fell all over it. 

On another wall, a TV hung next to some photos of Sam, Jack, Claire — some people he recalled, and some he didn’t know. On a corner, almost facing sideways, was a shot Sam had taken of Dean and Castiel, in front of the Impala. It was covered in dust.

As though Dean couldn’t bear to see it, nor put it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts still open! Please refer to ending notes on chapters nine and ten.


	12. Inter#ude #wo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay!

Claire had last seen Jimmy Novak when she was a child — and during her troubled youth, she’d still recognized hints of him in Castiel’s face. How could she not? But then, just as she stepped into the shoes of adulthood, the angel was taken from her and she was left truly, unequivocally, irrefutably, an orphan. She’d kept photos, of both Jimmy and Castiel, in her wallet so she wouldn’t forget their twin faces while grappling with heartbreak.

Now, however, when she studied this Castiel, all traces of her father were gone. The vulnerability his humanity had granted him along with whatever he’d brought back from ‘The Empty,’ had shifted something in him she couldn’t quite pinpoint yet. He was kind and dorky with her, and he watched at Dean as though he hung the Moon one minute, and would sass him like a pro the next. It was amusing, sure, but when Dean glanced away, Castiel’s eyes would sadden and her heart would ache in return.

(Those two? Oh, no. Yeah. They were head over heels for each other. It was kinda gross, too, but when she’d complained to Jody, all she’d gotten was a “How do you think _you_ look like with Sandra?” Whatever.)

Dean, too, had some serious issues. Sure, back in the day Claire’d been so absorbed with hunting, finding Kaia, keeping herself together, the intensity of their relationship had gone over her head. When Sam was discharged from the hospital, he’d confessed to Jody and Donna that Dean might not even try to wake up from his coma. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but she never forgot the charged atmosphere afterward. Dean _did_ recover after all, but instead of bouncing back, he’d become a recluse in the random town of Edenwood. All hopes he would settle down with someone went out the window when he turned into a high-functioning alcoholic. He never got violent, sure, but she’d glimpsed the darkness once or twice when he downed one too many.

She’d even stopped sending him the hunting apprentices she picked up after a couple had reported being terrified of him (mind you, these kids spent their evenings chasing werewolves and wendigos, but _Dean_ scared them).

Dean, though not actively hunting anymore, took the occasional case now and then — and he was _fierce_. With total disregard for his own safety, he’d charge at the creature of the day and Claire swore he looked disappointed to tell the tale. Of course she sent him to the benches when he could get away with it! Dean Winchester was a legend, and damn it, she wasn’t gonna let him jump into the nest of a stray vampire to enable his suicidal behavior.

Which was why, upon setting out to put down a Creature (an unidentified species from another universe that sometimes slipped through the cracks) that ended up being a run-of-the-mill everyday ghost with both Dean and Castiel, their dynamic had almost thrown her off the game — and if _she_ died during a random hunt, Sanda would bring her back from the dead just to kill her anew.

Dean charged as aggressively as always, but he was constantly distracted by Castiel. Any unexpected noise from his direction and Dean dashed madly, gun ready, eyes wide and panicked. Not that Castiel was any better, though. She’d taught the ex-angel the basics of firearm management and maintenance, and his natural fearlessness gave him an edge other humans (who were _born_ mortals) lacked. Sure, his humanity brought about some anxiety for the team, but when confronted with a monster Castiel never froze with fear.

Except, Castiel, too, was easily distracted by anything attempting to hurt Dean. Seriously, it would be cute if it couldn’t cost them their lives. The only way they’d made it back bruised and not in a coffin was because whatever lack of self-preservation they had for themselves substituted their natural worry for each other.

And sure, there was no trace of Jimmy Novak in Castiel’s face anymore, but that didn’t mean she was comfortable with the blatant eye-fucking they had going on here.

Claire cleared her throat, which interrupted whatever dire mental conversation they’d fallen into. How _dare_ Jody say she and Sandra were this bad. Jeez.

“Dunno ‘bout you guys,” she said, leaning against one of the tombstones (she’d bumped her elbow pretty badly, and Castiel had refused to let her dig). “But I’d rather crash in my own house and my own bed three hours away than a cheap motel ‘round the corner. How does that sound?”

Dean, back to shovering earth into the grave they’d just decimated with holy oil, gave a hum in appreciation. “No complaints here. You still have that decent queen-sized bed in the guestroom?” His own attempt to skip digging and play the ‘broken arm’ card had long expired.

“Yeah,” Claire answered, raising her eyebrows and wondering if Dean had forgotten she only had _one_ other bedroom. _Bet he doesn’t mind._ “Nice jacuzzi, too. I thought Sandra was overdoing it, but a bubble bath after a hunt? Paradise.” She’d almost stumbled and said ‘Heaven,’ but Castiel kept digging.

“Daaamn,” Dean whistled in appreciation and then grunted as he threw another shovelful of dirt. “Being a surgeon pays well.”

“Better than being a hunter, it does!”

Castiel had been silent the whole time after the confrontation. She blamed it on his disappointment it _hadn’t_ been a Creature after all, but he seemed troubled by their way of disposing of the bones. Perhaps he didn’t remember ghosts only vanished after dousing their remains in holy oil, what did she know.

“Dude,” Dean said. “If there’s an easier way to torch them sons-of-bitches I’m all ears.”

But Castiel just frowned in bemusement. After packing their shovels, weapons, and bags, they began the long trek to the Impala. Sure, a soak in a hot tub with bubbles and scented powder was a dream — but in truth, all she wanted was to melt into her wife’s arms. Maybe she was a sap after all. Sue her.

 

* * *

 

When Claire woke up the following morning, Sandra still clung to her like a lifeline, bare arms wrapped warmly around Claire’s naked waist, her breath hot and slow in the back of her neck. Their knees were bent and locked. Usually, Claire was the cuddler, but after a hunt, Sandra always spooned her as though fearing she’d vanish. With a contented smile, she scooted backward and reveled in the touch of her wife. _She’s so warm…_

“You awake?” Sandra whispered behind her, trailing a path of kisses on her neck and making her groan. “Missed ya.”

“Hmm…” Claire grinned and turned to face her, one hand caressing Sandra’s golden skin, down the shoulder-length curls of black hair. She spotted a white strand here and there, and though her wife complained the contrast was too obvious and everyone could see, Claire adored her. Big, pink lips curved in a smile; tired brown eyes peeked at her through thick lashes. A flutter burned deep in Claire’s gut and she surged forward, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, drowning Sandra’s gasp of happiness. On and on it went, the licks turning into pants, into gasps, into groans and…”Shit, ouch, _fuck_!”

Pain spiked down her fingertips and up her shoulder, her arm suddenly so sore she grabbed at it with a hiss. Quick hands pried hers away as Sandra took it and softly prodded at her swollen elbow. “We might need an X-ray, hon.” She said, and the cheerful tone did nothing to mask her worry. “Why didn’t you tell me you hurt yourself?”

“Forgot,” she admitted, blinking tears of pain. She’d iced the thing the minute she sat on the back of the Impala, dry-swallowed Ibuprofen, and forgot all about it after sinking into the mattress after a well-deserved shower. “Son of a bitch, this _hurts_.”

“Here, we need to splint that.” Sandra got up and rushed toward their bathroom, rummaging around and carrying with her their surgical first-aid-kit and a thick roll of gauze. “Stay still.”

Ever since they’d first met, Sandra had tended to each and every one of Claire’s wounds with the softness of a lover, and the cool-mindedness of a professional. She understood all her scars, all her weaknesses, every single crook and cranny of her body and its history. Whenever Claire bled, bruised, or broke, she saw through her calm and into the unsettled panic that sure, this time she’d made it back safe and sound, but what if her lucky streak came to a sudden end?

But because Sandra loved her too much, more than she could ever deserve, she’d never attempted to stop her. She’d never asked her to stay. “Thank you,” she whispered when they were done. Sandra smiled because it wasn’t about the dressing. “I love you.”

When they both headed to the kitchen, they found both Dean and Castiel sitting on a table full with a spread of food. Dean’s famous breakfast dishes were lined beautifully: eggs sunny-side-up, crispy bacon, cheese omelet, hash browns, even a salad, and stir-fried spinach. A fresh pot of coffee sat in the middle of the table and the moment Dean noticed them, he poured them a mug with a million dollar smile. He’d obviously enjoyed his stay, and if Castiel’s relaxed posture was anything to go by, so had he. _Huh. I might have to burn those sheets into oblivion._

“Mornin’ ladies!” Dean’s brow furrowed when he saw Claire carrying her arm awkwardly. “Still hurtin’?”

“I’ll bring her to the ER later today,” Sandra explained, biting her lip.

Though Sandra’s feelings for Dean had tipped more on the negative side at first, he’d saved her life often enough that Sandra loved him like family — and he’d also risked her safety one too many times for her to be completely forgiving. Castiel eyed her injury with a pinched expression.

“It’s not a big deal,” she assured them, rolling her eyes. _Just need to pop some pills after some food,_ she amended to herself. In order to break the peculiar tension in the room, she stabbed her fork into a fluffy pancake and practically drowned it in maple syrup. “So, bummer it wasn’t a Creature, right?”

“Meh,” Dean replied, adding a dash of powdered paprika to his bacon. “Lucky we always carry a flask of holy oil.”

Castiel’s expression hardened and he put down his coffee mug with a loud clang. “####.”

Claire blinked. “What?”

“####,” he insisted. “You kill ghosts by ####ing their bones and burning them.”

“What, no, man,” Dean insisted, frowning. He rubbed the inside of his hear, and Claire found herself imitating him, annoyed at a background bleep that had appeared out of nowhere. “We use holy oil. It’s the only thing that works with the bones. Or you use iron, but that’s temporary.”

“What… what’s that other thing?” Sandra repeated, leaning forward in interest. “Maybe it could help you guys in the future. I mean, Castiel’s an—was an angel, surely he knows a thing or two about ghosts.”

But Castiel stared at the table, eyes darting from plate to plate, and then his eyes widened a fraction. White as a sheet, he stood from his chair, Dean standing with him in alarm. She watched as Castiel took a step backward before turning on his heel and rushing to the kitchen. _Something’s not right._ Hot on his heels, Claire raced Dean to the door to find him rummaging through their cabinets while mumbling something under his breath.

“Cas—hey, hey! What the hell, man?”

Dean rushed to stop him, but Castiel just waved him away as he opened all the spice containers and sniffed at them before putting them away in a frenzy. Now with both Dean and Sandra staring at her helplessly, Claire swallowed the lump in her throat and knelt beside him. “Castiel. Wait, look at me. What’s going on?”

He stopped moving, his fingers dropping the nutmeg where it crashed on the floor.

With impossible wide eyes, he ran a shaky hand through his hair, a gesture he’d picked up from Sam. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, we can clean this up, it’s not a problem,” Sandra blurted, her voice cautious and movements deliberate. With her hands up in the air in surrender, she took another step and set herself up next to Claire, a steady hand reaching his wrist as she maneuvered to take his pulse.

“You don’t understand.”

“Cas, buddy, what the hell are you going on about?” Dean growled. “What are y—”

“####.” Castiel nodded to himself when he got no response.

He shot a pleading glance at Dean and drew a blank stare, and Claire watched as he communicated something without words that went over the hunter’s head. As the realization hit him, Castiel lowered his head to stare, unblinking, at his trembling hands, and Claire’s chest ached with pity and urgency. Dean hovered over them for a beat, before walking over Castiel and grasping his shoulder. Castiel’s face usually lit up when Dean touched him — to Claire’s dismay — but he remained pale and troubled.

With eyes that spoke of heartache and terror, he turned to her. “You were right, Claire.”

Before she could ask what he meant, she recognized the unease in his eyes, the guilt that radiated off him. _I know this._ The memory clawed its way to the surface.

_(“Castiel, It never said anything about coming here, right? To start a new Apocalypse or something.”)_

A chill ran down her spine like a whip. She remembered Castiel’s sick complexion back in the day; when he’d just come back almost five months ago, when she’d confronted him in the Bunker’s kitchen. All her insecurities, all her fear, the possibility that a new “Big Bad” was onto them crashed into her like a tsunami. If Dean’s stony expression was anything to go by, he’d also come to the same conclusion. Even Sandra’s tanned skin bleached in realization.

_(“Because if It’s as old… older than_ God _, I don’t even want to think about It coming here.”)_

“It seems like I’ve brought It back with me.

 

* * *

 

Claire hadn’t broken her arm, but the swelling needed to go down before she could take off the cast. She tapped her fingers into it to the rhythm of an old pop song. Sandra sat behind her like a familiar, human armchair, her arms around Claire’s waist, chin on her shoulder. They’d sat down like that after the hospital, and now both Dean and Castiel were on their way to Edenwood.  

Alone in their bubble, they huddled comfortably on the sofa. Sandra had turned on the lamp in their hallway so a shy ray of light glowed in the dark living room. The electrical fireplace — it would be a good time to turn it on, but neither had the energy nor the will to move away from each other. Instead, they waited, counting the seconds as the night crept in. It was getting cold, so Claire relaxed into Sandra’s arms and let herself be warmed.

“I love you,” Claire whispered, tilting her head to touch cheek to cheek with Sandra.

She hummed. “I love you.”

An ache that had nothing to do with her injuries throbbed somewhere in her gut, perhaps behind her lungs, or it swam in the acid of her stomach. Her eyelids burned something savage, triggered by Sandra’s own silent tears pooling on her shirt, down her arm. They did this—sometimes. Sit together. Hug. Sandra would cry to release all the worry, to thank whoever was still up there that Claire was back. Claire would bask in her wife’s love, taking it with her every time she left to hold onto it in order to come back.

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

Sandra never asked her to stay. Not once had she entertained the idea of stopping her. _Because she loves me_ . It was as glorious as it was agonizing. Every time Claire apologized, Sandra would respond with love, trust, and longing — and still, Claire would grab her duffel and drive through the night and put herself in mortal danger. _Saving people. Hunting things._

Because that was who she was. And for some insane reason, Sandra loved her enough to put up with it without complaint.

“You deserve so much better,” she whispered. “Someone who won’t leave.”

Sandra huffed, then sniffed. “You idiot. I love _you_.”

_(“I would jump into Hell headfirst if that saved Sandra. And I would happily lock myself in Lucifer’s cage if that would keep her safe.”)_

_What did I do to deserve her?_

_(“What they did, it was for love, and both times it was_ their _choice.”)_

“We promised,” Sandra whispered, her voice cracking. “Through the good times and the bad times and all that bullshit. So this is me, loving you and worrying about you, and wanting _you_ for you.”

“What—what happened today.” Claire swallowed. “You know what it means.”

“I knew what it meant since the day you told me Castiel was back,” she admitted. “When you left that day… I just _knew_ . That it would be good for you, and for Dean and Sam and _gods_ , I was so happy for you but still… Claire. Of course it meant something big. Because I married a hunter.”

“I’m sorry.”

“This won’t be an ordinary case, it might even be a repeat of five years ago. But I was there back then, and I’ll be here now.”

Claire wanted to point out that, while _she_ hadn’t almost died while fighting Nachash, this was a whole new war. But the words left her. She recalled Castiel’s dismayed face as he searched for that… thing, word… that disappeared. Obliterated out of existence into the only realm where nothingness reigned.

They’d been right to fear the meaning behind Castiel’s return.

“I love you, Claire. You have no idea. You go out and fight monsters and I never know if the next time I’ll see you-you’ll be alive or hell, there might not even be a body to say goodbye to in a funeral. And it’s so scary I want to lock myself in a room and _scream_ —but this? This is more.” Sandra let out a half-sob, half-laugh. The arms around her tightened, fingers intertwining on her tummy. “I love you _so fucking much_ it scares me _more_ than that, more than _anything_ . So yes, I love you, and when you leave through that door to fight the end of the world or God-knows-what next time, I will _still_ love you because this is who you are, and you deserve the best and this is the best _I_ can give you because _you_ are the best of me and oh gods…”

White noise blurred out Sandra’s hysterical sobbing as Claire’s own breathing grew heavy. Crying loudly, Claire shifted onto her hip and locked her lips to Sandra’s, their kiss messy and wet and disgusting — but real. _Jesus fuck I’m so sorry..._ Because they loved differently, but they were sincere. Claire surged, her hands on Sandra’s cheeks as she poured every pulse of her love into her with her lips and tongue, a bolt of arousal striking her like lightning and making her gasp in shock.

“I love you,” Claire declared, short of breath as she watched the brown irises disappear into lust-blown pupils. “You are _everything_ to me.”

“Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more interlude to go! As you can see, Destiel is advancing behind the scenes… And we will get to that shortly ;)


End file.
